


Shall History Remember?

by Drenagon



Series: Lessons Well Learnt [15]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, Gen, Post Hobbit, Post-Canon Fix-It, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 52
Words: 255,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drenagon/pseuds/Drenagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin's choices have shaped the fate of Middle Earth for many years to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins! This is the sequel to History Teaches Us. If you have not read that particular mammoth I'm afraid you're going to be very confused. If you have - bear in mind what I tend to do to canon. Then you can wave at it as it flies into the distance :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: I have occasionally heard this strange rumour that authors don't like comments on completed stories. I have no idea where it came from, but I promise this particular author loves all feedback. If you are reading and enjoying this story, please let me know. It took me two years to write, eating up a huge chunk of my free time in the process, and feedback is what makes all that time worthwhile.

Prologue

‘I could just go and… remind him,’ Mahal suggested in the most innocent tone he could manage, looking at Eru sidelong. ‘It would not be breaking any rules. I have already spoken to him of it before.’

‘Of all of my children, Aulë, you have the least patience,’ Eru told him with weary forbearance. ‘I know not why. Can you not believe that I have all well in hand?’

Now Mahal was stuck. He could hardly point out to the father of all life on Middle Earth, including his own, that he did not _seem_ to have all well in hand. None of the Valar knew all of their father’s plans. Perhaps this was all happening according to Eru’s timeline. It was just that that timeline was so… slow. Mahal was not fond of things happening slowly. When he had been in charge, Thorin Oakenshield had been set upon his quest, all had progressed in the space of a few months and then good had triumphed over evil and all had been well. None of this confounded waiting.

Eru began to laugh.

‘Your thoughts could not be clearer if you were shouting them from the top of the Lonely Mountain, child,’ he informed Mahal. ‘I say again, patience. I will see that all begins when it ought to begin. After that it will be up to the young ones. I have faith in them.’

‘So do I,’ Mahal conceded. ‘It is Sauron I do not trust.’

‘We would all have done well to trust less in Mairon,’ Eru sighed. ‘As we would in Melkor. It is what it is, though. Regrets will change nothing now.’

Mahal said nothing after that. It was a guilt they all bore and it had nearly destroyed everything they had built. He could only hope that this time the young ones would be able to win the war alone. Middle Earth could not survive another War of Wrath.

******

 

 


	2. In Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training continues as the years pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fairly short first chapter but I hope you'll enjoy it. This story might not be updated as quickly as History (I think I'm going to have to call this one Remember or my brain will die) for a variety of boring reasons. I'll try to keep to at least once a week, so please bear with me. I always get there in the end!
> 
> Oh, as far as I am aware, BOFA (BOTE in my verse, which isn't nearly as catchy) happened in 2941. The dates at the top of each segment are meant to help with where we are in the timeline. I'm jumping around a bit in the first couple of chapters.

 Chapter One: In Training

2945

‘Please tell me you are not planning for me to marry Dyre!’ Sigrid exclaimed irritably as soon as dinner was over and the servants had left the room. Bard winced. He had hoped they might avoid this subject a little longer.

‘You do,’ Sigrid said disbelievingly. ‘You expect me to marry the boy who only stopped attempting to grope me because Bifur threatened to disembowel him if he continued. Da!’

‘I do not expect you to marry him,’ Bard explained when she had finished this speech. ‘I am not blind, Sigrid. I am well aware how deeply you dislike him. I simply have not found a good way of explaining the situation to Dyre’s parents yet. They are powerful people in Dale and I don’t think telling them that you loathe their son is likely to go over well.’

Bain snorted loudly.

‘They must be blind themselves if they haven’t noticed,’ he contributed. ‘She practically flees the room as soon as Dyre enters it.’

‘I do not flee,’ Sigrid insisted. ‘I leave. It’s different.’

Bain’s expression made his opinion clear.

‘This is one of the conversations you aren’t meant to get involved with, O Great Lord of Dale,’ Tilda told her brother scornfully.

Bard could feel a headache coming on. ‘Tilda, I have told you more than once to stop using that name,’ he informed his youngest. ‘You may go to your rooms and remain there until the morning. I will know if you have not.’

Tilda opened her mouth to protest, before looking at her father and thinking better of it. It had been over two years since Bain had returned from Erebor a lot less annoying than he had been when he left. Perhaps it was time to find something new to prod him about.

Content that he was to be obeyed, Bard turned to his elder two.

‘Bain, go elsewhere please, and if I find any hint of rumour about Dyre and your sister I will know who to speak to.’ Bain, too, decided that discretion was the better part of valour and left without saying a word.

‘Sigrid,’ Bard continued then in his gentlest tone, ‘the easiest way for me to put an end to the suggestion that you marry Dyre would be to announce your betrothal to another.’ Sigrid shook her head almost immediately.

‘No,’ she responded quickly. ‘I told you on my birthday that I wasn’t going to marry anyone and I am not.’

‘Darling,’ Bard sighed, ‘I know that you have made your feelings clear but I don’t understand why. What do you have against marriage?’

‘Nothing,’ Sigrid answered softly, staring at first into the fire and then looking at her father. ‘If things were different I would be glad to marry. Perhaps even marry Eric, as I know you and Varr hope I will.’

Bard had the good grace to look ashamed at this. He and Varr had talked idly of such a thing in earlier days, then less idly more recently. He had not realised that Sigrid knew. He ought to have known better. Little happened that their children did not find out about, one way or another.

‘But?’ he asked Sigrid carefully. Oh, how he wished for Maeva at times like this. He adored all of his children and usually understood Sigrid as well as any of them. He did not understand her thoughts on this, however, and he was sure that Maeva would have been able to hazard a guess at least.

‘You won’t tell anyone what I say?’ Sigrid asked him fervently, catching him by surprise. ‘Not anyone, Da, you promise?’

‘I promise,’ Bard said automatically, then wondered if he had just made a major error. Who knew what Sigrid would tell him or who he might need to tell it to?

‘I don’t want to marry anyone because the one I do want to marry won’t marry me,’ Sigrid said then, so quietly Bard had to strain to hear. Then he had to try and parse the sentence before replying.

‘The one you do?’ Bard queried when he finally understood. Then, when she did not respond, ‘Sigrid?’

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ she said, with a smile that made her look so like her mother. ‘It won’t change anything and I don’t want it to alter how you treat him.’

‘I do know him then?’ Bard asked her, running a list of possible candidates through his head. Sigrid chuckled wryly.

‘How many people do I know that you don’t, Da?’ she replied. Bard smiled in return. That was true enough. Unfortunately, he still had a major problem on his hands.

‘Sigrid, you are still young,’ he told her affectionately. ‘What seems so important now may fade as you grow older.’

‘Not that young,’ Sigrid answered, which Bard felt only made her appear younger still. Then she changed his mind. ‘I might grow out of it,’ she agreed, ‘though I don’t think I will. It has lasted longer than any fancy of Bain’s or Eric’s. If I do, there is no reason I can’t change my mind.’ She shook her head slightly. ‘I am the Lady of Dale, unless you remarry, Da. There are fortune hunters enough who will marry me no matter how old I am.’

‘Hardly the sort of husband a man wants for his daughter!’ Bard answered sharply, making her laugh again.

‘Or the sort I want for myself,’ Sigrid acknowledged. ‘Don’t worry so, Da. I have it all planned out.’

‘Oh, do you indeed?’ Bard said, now very much amused. ‘What have you been plotting then, lass?’

‘I am going to go to the Woodland Realm,’ she announced, as if she was telling him she was off to market the next morning. ‘I will train with Legolas and Tauriel for as long as they think I need to become skilled with my bow and daggers. Then I will come back here and help Bain lead the patrols once he is old enough to take over from the Guard Captain. When he has to take up your seat, hopefully many years from now, I will lead them myself. By that time people will be so used to me fighting they won’t even question it. If they do, I can point them to Tauriel or Lady Dís to be corrected! Should I change my mind in a few years and wish to marry instead, I can just wait until Alnir grows up and then marry him. He told me last month that he would wait for me.’

Bard could not help laughing again. Alnir had developed a certain amount of hero worship for Sigrid in the last year or two and that was certainly the sort of thing the outspoken lad would come out with. The rest was unexpected, though the more Bard thought about it the more it began to make sense. Both girls had kept up their training over the years but Sigrid had been the more devoted of the two. Bard had originally thought that role would go to Tilda. His youngest was feistier on the surface, but Sigrid had the determination to keep trying week after week after week. Really, there was only one part of Sigrid’s plan that confused him, although he had suspicions he preferred not to examine too closely.

‘Why the Woodland Realm?’ he questioned her. ‘You have always trained with Fíli and Kíli before. Would it not make more sense to go to them?’ Despite his concerns, Sigrid’s answer seemed perfectly sensible.

‘They say I’m too tall for them now, Da,’ she replied, eyes merry. ‘Kíli moans that it is impossible to check my form with the bow when he has to go on tiptoe to correct me and Fíli says I will do better with someone who can match my reach.’

‘Thus Tauriel and Legolas,’ Bard concluded for her and she nodded.

‘Very well, then,’ Bard agreed finally. ‘I suppose your absence will make it easier to fend off offers for your hand, though Dyre’s parents will likely take offence somehow or other.’ Catching Sigrid’s look of concern, he hurried to reassure her. ‘That is no problem of yours, Sigrid. If I had put my foot down earlier then it would never have reached this point. I will work something out, never fear. When do you mean to leave?’

‘Legolas said they would visit for a week or so on their way back from Erebor next month. I will go with them when they leave.’

‘Then you had best continue preparing,’ Bard said, certain that Sigrid had already started planning what she would need and where to get it. That was her way and had been since she was a little girl. He was surprised, although pleased, when Sigrid threw herself into his lap and hugged him tightly.

‘Thank you, Da,’ she whispered fiercely in his ear.

‘You are welcome, darling,’ he answered, hugging her equally tightly in return. ‘I only want for you to be happy.’

‘I know,’ Sigrid assured him. She squeezed him one last time, a tear threatening but not falling, then dashed out of the room.

Bard sighed heavily. Whoever Sigrid’s love was and wherever he might be, Bard hoped he was suffering any number of indignities and disappointments. The bastard deserved it for hurting one of Bard’s girls.

*** 

2954

‘Uncle Bilbo, we’re going to be late,’ Frodo called from their parlour as Bilbo finished dressing. The lad was so excited it was a wonder he wasn’t beating down the door to get in.

‘We will not be late,’ Bilbo called back patiently. ‘They will not be here for an hour yet according to the guards.’

‘But what if the guards are wrong?’ Frodo asked with all the logic of a faunt worried about missing a treat.

‘Then Elladan and Elrohir will laugh at us and declare that hobbits keep their own time, just like wizards; Fíli and Kíli will challenge them to a duel in your honour; Dwalin will roll his eyes and tell them that they are out of practice just like their uncle; Thorin will hit him; Dis will hit him and before you know it everyone will have forgotten that we were not there on time to begin with!’ The latter Bilbo said as he pulled the door to his room open and nearly tripped over Frodo, who toppled forward as the door stopped holding his weight.

Bilbo let out an ‘oof’ of surprise and struggled to keep his feet and support Frodo’s weight.

‘Now really, my boy,’ he scolded Frodo when they were both upright once more, ‘what have I told you about doing that?’

‘That one day you will be holding something sharp and I will do myself an injury,’ Frodo chanted as he always did.

Bilbo tweaked the top of his ear in revenge.

‘Then mind that you _listen_ , instead of letting it go in one ear and out the other,’ he chided. Frodo appeared shamefaced for a few moments, at least. Sometimes Bilbo wondered if he would have raised a less impertinent hobbit if he had stayed in the Shire. Fíli and Kíli could not possibly be good examples for the lad. Knowing his luck, though, there would have been plenty of others to teach Frodo bad habits. Besides, the Shire had not been particularly good for either of them. Bilbo and Frodo were both much happier in Erebor.

‘Let us be off then,’ Bilbo commanded. ‘It would not do to be late.’ Scarce moments later he pulled the door to their rooms shut, locked it and placed the key securely in the front pocket of his waistcoat. As he did, he grazed his fingers habitually over the top of the ring without thinking about it or even noticing. Then he turned to follow Frodo down to the front gates to meet their guests.

*** 

2958

‘Pathetic, the pair of you,’ Dwalin scoffed at Fíli and Kíli as they half-heartedly attempted to dodge his swings, failing more often than not. ‘The lad is more skilled than the two of you this morning.' 

As Frodo was, unlike the dwarven brothers, not hungover from last night’s celebration of Bifur’s wedding, this was probably true. He was currently struggling to block a strike without losing hold of his sword, but he was spritely enough that he danced circles around most of the dwarven trainers when they were assessing his footwork.

‘Dwalin!’ Kíli wailed as he was given a particularly firm smack with the flat of Grasper’s blade. ‘Have a heart. At his age we would have been fine as well. He’s not old enough to drink yet.’

‘At your age you should know better than to drink so much when you must practice with Dwalin the next morning,’ Thorin commented from nearby, taking advantage of his opponent’s interest in the argument to catch him off guard and sweep him off his feet. ‘And you,’ he told Gimli with a smile, ‘should know better than to take your attention off your enemy.’

‘Ha!’ Frodo shouted loudly, ignoring the groans from Kíli and Fíli at his volume. ‘Uncle Dwalin, I did it!’

‘So you did,’ Dwalin affirmed, allowing his pride to show for a moment. ‘Good lad. Now, when you can do that against me I’ll be happy to send you into battle.’

‘Then I will devoutly hope he does not manage it for another hundred years yet,’ Bilbo put in from his place at the side of the training ring, where he was awaiting his own turn as Dwalin’s victim. ‘There is no need to be sending Frodo into battle when there are plenty of dwarven warriors around waiting to fight.’ 

‘I _am_ a dwarven warrior,’ Frodo insisted indignantly. ‘I blocked that blow just like anyone else.’

Bilbo merely looked at the ceiling and sighed hopelessly.

‘Dwarves!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Corrupting perfectly decent hobbits wherever they go.’

‘You did not take that much corrupting, if I remember rightly,’ Nori told Bilbo, as usual stood right behind him for maximum effect. Fíli, Kíli and Frodo were only the loudest of those caught laughing when Bilbo righted himself and turned to glare at them.

‘Come on,’ Nori told their elder hobbit with complete unconcern, ‘you can fight me while you’re waiting for Dwalin to be done with our incompetent Princes.’ This statement was punctuated, as if by magic, by Fíli’s shout of pain as he was caught out yet again. Sometimes Thorin could swear that Dwalin and Nori planned these things in advance.

‘We will be discussing Frodo’s misapprehension later,’ Bilbo threatened Thorin on his way past. Thorin chuckled.

‘Of that, my friend, I have no doubt.’

***

2964

‘Everything will be fine, Thorin!’ Balin said with great exasperation while the elves waiting nearby tried not to laugh. ‘Anybody would think that Dís and I had not been helping you to run Erebor for the last twenty years. It is not as if you are marching off on a long-term campaign. Stop fussing.’

‘I am not fussing,’ Thorin replied very precisely. He _was_ fussing, of course, and he knew it. This would be his first journey of any length since they had retaken Erebor. Dale and Lake-town were only a day or two’s ride away, and Thranduil had always been kind enough to make allowance for Thorin’s reluctance to leave Erebor unattended and had visited him instead. 

When the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien sent messengers inviting you to visit, however, you did not refuse. Not when they had visited you some years before and you had yet to return the favour.

‘Brother, you can get onto that pony voluntarily or I can knock you unconscious and tie your limp, pathetic body atop it before I send it on its way. The choice is yours.’ 

There, Thorin thought, was the voice of the power behind Erebor’s throne. Even Thorin did not disobey Dís too often. It always seemed to prove hazardous to his health.

‘I am leaving,’ Thorin informed her loftily. ‘If I return to find that you have staged a coup, I will go and stay with Thranduil for a few years. After you have spent a year or so listening to the Council and the Guilds argue, without having me to sacrifice to them, you will be begging me to come back.’

‘No doubt,’ Dís responded, reaching over to clasp his arm in farewell. ‘The whole point of having you is so that you can do the boring parts of ruling that I have no interest in.’ Then she continued more seriously, ‘Take care of yourself, Thorin, and of the boys too. They’re mostly cured of the idiocy of the young but they have relapses.’

‘I will have Bilbo to help me if they look like they’re going to step out of line,’ Thorin answered, ignoring the fact that Bilbo would doubtless have his hands full with Frodo. To say that their young hobbit was excited to be journeying to Lothlórien for the first time would be an understatement.

‘And when Bilbo’s finished with them I will have my turn,’ Dwalin said with great relish, ‘and _then_ I will hand them over to Ori.’

‘You are a callous, unfeeling brute,’ Fíli told Dwalin with great passion. Ori had not yet forgiven the Princes for wandering off to the Shire after he had forbidden them from doing any such thing. Ori loved Bilbo and Frodo as much as anyone, but unlike the others he had not allowed their arrival to exonerate Fíli and Kíli. Thorin had watched with great amusement as their quiet, gentle scribe had taken to ruling the two Princes with a mithril fist. In all other ways Ori was very much the same dwarf he had been when they began the quest, albeit more confident, but he had taken to his role as the boys’ keeper with a will.

‘Enough,’ Thorin announced when Dwalin looked likely to provoke the lads further. ‘Let us be off. We have a way to go yet before sundown.' 

As they rode away, he could not help turning to look with some longing at Erebor. Thorin had only grown to love his Mountain more as the years had passed and he had devoted himself to her rule. He would miss her while he was away.

******


	3. Appear and Disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old events play out in new ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos so far! I'm so happy that so many of you are back again and that there are new people coming along for the ride. 
> 
> One last warning before we go further: if you are attached to canon, if there are certain canon events that absolutely _must_ take place if you are going to enjoy a story, I'm afraid you're in the wrong place. My world is not the world from LOTR, though many of the characters are the same and some events may occur similarly. If you do keep reading, please don't be upset with me when I start changing things left, right and centre. You knew it was coming :D

Chapter Two: Appear and Disappear

 

2963

‘Wrong way!’ Meriadoc Brandybuck shouted as he emerged from Farmer Maggot’s field and nearly slid straight off the edge of a steep drop. ‘Wrong way, Pip!’

‘Aahhah,’ Pippin yelled almost simultaneously as he tried to come to an abrupt halt without the use of his arms to balance him. ‘Merry, they’re just behind us!’

‘I know,’ Merry answered, frantically looking around for somewhere that they could go. ‘There,’ he exclaimed triumphantly, ‘down there by the water. If we go through it they won’t be able to find us.’

‘Are you sure?’ Pippin asked nervously, even as they started to move. ‘I don’t think those dogs are normal dogs.’

‘What other kind of dog could they be?’ Merry questioned as he tried to slide down the hill without crashing into any of the bigger branches or bushes.

‘I don’t know,’ Pippin responded. ‘Strange dogs. Evil ones.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Merry muttered to himself, wincing as a bush tried to keep his shirt for itself. ‘Evil dogs. Why didn’t I think of that?’

Thankfully they made it to the bottom fairly well intact and were across the small brook and hiding behind a tree before Farmer Maggot’s dogs reached the water and entered it, whining in annoyance at losing their prey. It felt like an eternity to Merry, sat there and barely daring to breathe in case they were caught. After the last time, his father had threatened to confine the two of them to their rooms for a month for every vegetable they were caught stealing. The Thain wasn’t likely to gainsay him.

Finally, they heard Farmer Maggot calling the dogs back to the field. Despite their reluctance, the dogs finally moved off and Merry and Pippin were left alone.

Or so Merry had thought.

He had just crept around the tree, to check that the dogs really were gone, when Pippin hissed at him with a touch of panic in his voice. ‘Merry!’

‘What?’ Merry replied, still checking the undergrowth on the other side of the brook for danger.

‘Merry, come back round here,’ Pippin demanded. Merry withheld a sigh. Pippin could be very nervy sometimes, despite having a complete lack of common sense according to most of the Shire.

‘Fine, fine, I’m coming,’ Merry told him, moving back to their hiding place. ‘What’s wro….’

Merry didn’t get a chance to finish the question before the answer became perfectly obvious. Crouched opposite Pippin, staring intently at Merry’s cousin, was nothing Merry had ever seen before.

Thin, bony, gangling and ugly, with the biggest eyes Merry had ever seen, the creature looked terrifying. Clearly it was terrifying Pippin. Merry reached down for a rock, readying himself to throw it at the creature and try to drive it off, when it took him completely by surprise.

‘Hobbits,’ it said to them. ‘You is hobbits.’

‘Merry, did you hear that?’ Pippin whispered frantically. ‘It talks. Why is it talking?’ At that the creature’s face screwed up in annoyance and Pippin whimpered.

‘Why shouldn’t we talk?’ the creature asked them irritably. ‘It talks as well,’ he continued, pointing at Merry. ‘So does it,’ now he pointed at Pippin. ‘We is not stupid.’

‘Pippin was just surprised,’ Merry said soothingly, trying to calm both himself and this oddity they had stumbled across. ‘He didn’t mean to insult you. What’s your name?’

Possibly this wasn’t the most important question at the moment. Merry had meant to ask, ‘Who are you?’ or ‘What are you doing here?’ Hobbit manners were very well-ingrained, though. If you met a stranger, you made sure introductions were completed before you started asking them questions.

‘We is Sméagol,’ the creature informed Merry easily, his previous anger apparently gone. ‘You is hobbits,’ it carried on, returning to its original thought.

‘Yes,’ Merry answered. ‘I’m Meriadoc Brandybuck and this is Peregrin Took. You can call me Merry and him Pippin.’

Sméagol seemed to consider this for a while and Merry took the chance to look at it… him more closely. Despite the thinness of Sméagol’s arms and legs, and the fact that he seemed completely out of proportion, he was almost… familiar. Something about his ears perhaps? Merry was not certain. At first he had worried that Sméagol was an orc. Merry remembered Cousin Bilbo telling tales of orcs when Merry was very young, before he and Frodo went away. Those orcs hadn’t stopped to ask what race a person was before trying to eat them though. From what Cousin Bilbo had said they hadn’t cared.

‘We needs to find the hobbit,’ Sméagol said suddenly. ‘It has the precious and we needs it back.’

‘Which hobbit?’ Pippin interjected, apparently having got over his fear now. ‘There’s lots of us.’

Sméagol looked very perturbed at this announcement. If he had not been so strange Merry would have said that he was pouting like a faunt. It was almost sweet.

‘Lots of hobbits?’ Sméagol asked.

‘Yes,’ Pippin agreed. ‘Tooks and Brandybucks and Bolgers and Bracegirdles and Hardbottles and all sorts.’

‘We doesn’t know,’ Sméagol said, hitting the ground with his hand in frustration as his voice rose to a shout. ‘We needs to find the hobbit!’

‘Well there’s no need to shout about it,’ Merry told him. ‘We were only asking.’

‘Sméagol is hungry,’ he moaned then, very pathetically. ‘Precious is gone and we is hungry and we has been walking forever and we don’t know where the hobbit is.’

‘Walking and precious and this mystery hobbit we can’t do anything about,’ Pippin said firmly, ‘but I have food. Here.’ So saying, he presented Sméagol with some of their stolen loot. Sméagol watched it as if it might bite him instead of he it.

‘We doesn’t eat… that,’ Sméagol told him with a wave in the direction of Pippin’s vegetables. ‘We eats fish and rabbits and things that squirm.’

‘Oh. That sounds unhealthy,’ Pippin answered. Merry could tell that he had quickly changed the final word to something less insulting. No doubt he had originally thought it sounded disgusting. ‘No wonder you look so thin. Anyway, refusing an offer of food, especially hard-won food, is rude. Just try some.’

Sméagol obviously had no idea how to respond to the combined criticism of his diet and his manners. Rather than protesting further, he took the carrot that Pippin was brandishing at him and bit the end off. Merry didn’t bother to point out to Pippin or Sméagol that the vegetables really could do with cleaning and preparing before Sméagol started chomping on them. Sometimes it was easier to just go along with Pippin’s ideas.

‘Is good,’ Sméagol said, sounding very surprised. ‘We likes it. Gives us more.’

‘Well I never!’ Pippin exclaimed then, huffily. The fact that he sounded very much like Aunt Eglantine was something else Merry wasn’t going to mention. ‘What happened to please and thank you?’

‘What is please and thank you?’ Sméagol asked in return, clearly befuddled.

‘Merry!’ Pippin exclaimed again, waving his arms in a flailing gesture of despair. Really, his cousin was very excitable. ‘He doesn’t know _anything_.’

‘We does,’ Sméagol argued back heatedly. ‘We knows lots of things.’

‘Like what?’ Pippin asked him.

‘We knows goblinses taste better than orcses,’ Sméagol said proudly, ‘and eagles doesn’t go out at night.’ That phrase caused a strange look to come onto Sméagol’s face. Merry could almost have sworn it was embarrassment. ‘We knows swimming and boats and hiding very, very quietly.’

Merry’s mind had caught up with his ears and then been arrested by the first sentence. Taste better. Sméagol knew that goblins tasted better than orcs. That wasn’t good. That was very, very bad, in fact. If Sméagol ate things – people-like things – what if he tried to eat them too?

‘Pippin,’ Merry said suddenly and urgently. ‘It’s time we went home. We were supposed to be back for lunch.’

Pippin, idiot that he was, opened his mouth to protest. Honestly, he couldn’t be so distracted by Sméagol’s lack of manners that he’d missed what Sméagol had just said, could he?

‘Pippin, we need to go now,’ Merry repeated, then whispered to him, ‘ _before he tries to eat us_!’

‘He isn’t going to eat us,’ Pippin whispered back. ‘That’s why I gave him the carrot.’

Merry closed his eyes briefly and prayed to whichever of the Valar were listening for protection. Especially for Pippin. One day he was going to get himself killed.

‘Sméagol not eat you,’ Sméagol announced. His hearing was obviously better than Merry had realised and he had now decided to have his own say. ‘Sméagol not eat hobbits. Hobbits not food.’

In Merry’s world orcs and goblins weren’t food either. Sméagol seemed certain in his decision, though, and it suddenly occurred to Merry that running away and leaving Sméagol wandering around the Shire could be dangerous. They needed to do something. Merry just wasn’t sure what.

‘No, we aren’t food,’ Pippin continued on, blithely unconcerned by their possible danger. ‘Come on, we’ll take you back to Brandy Hall and find you some more to eat. Then you can tell us about this hobbit you’re looking for.’

‘Pippin!’ Merry cried, but Pippin wasn’t listening. He had patted Sméagol on the back and begun to walk in the direction of Brandy Hall, Sméagol following along behind.

Merry despaired. He really did.

***

Contrary to Merry’s opinion, Pippin wasn’t stupid. He knew that this Sméagol might well be dangerous and that they needed to be wary. Pippin thought that Sméagol might be like the mousers that wandered all over the Great Smials. Some of them were friendly and loved to be fussed, of course, but the Smials were so big that some of them were born and raised by their mothers without ever coming into contact with a hobbit. Those were the ones you had to watch out for. They were very good at getting rid of mice and rats, but if you caught them on the wrong day they might decide that you needed to be got rid of as well.

That had happened to Pippin more times than he preferred to think about. He had never worked out how the other Tooks seemed to know which cats they could pet and which they couldn’t. So instead he’d come up with another way of solving the problem. He treated all of the cats the same, waiting for them to come to him and acting as if it was inevitable that they would. It worked surprisingly well.

At this point, Pippin realised he’d lost track of what he was thinking before.

Oh, yes, that was it. Sméagol.

Sméagol was a lot like the cats. All you had to do was treat him as if you didn’t think he was dangerous at all, as if it was a foregone conclusion that he would do as you told him, and he would behave perfectly. Just like he was now, following along behind Pippin happily and occasionally stopping to splash in puddles left over from last night’s rain.

It was simple, really.

There was no need for Merry to wander along behind them muttering curses and imprecations under his breath.

No one was going to get hurt.

***

2964

‘King Thorin,’ Celeborn greeted as Thorin and his party followed their guides into the glade which housed Caras Galadhon, ‘we are honoured to have you visit us.’

‘As I am honoured to be invited,’ Thorin told him, giving Celeborn a slight bow before stretching out his arm to return the clasp that Celeborn offered, wrist to elbow. ‘You have a beautiful kingdom.’

‘We have always thought so,’ Galadriel commented, stepping forward to give Thorin her own hand to clasp lightly. ‘We are always glad to share it with friends. Come, you have travelled far and must be ready to rest.’ Galadriel signalled and one of her handmaidens stepped forward to her side. ‘Liralin will see that you have all you need,’ Galadriel assured them.

Thorin suspected that most of those he had with him would actually much prefer to explore. Frodo had asked question after question of their guide during the trip through the forest and looked ready to dash off and get his nose into everything at any moment. Ori was also wildly curious, and Fíli and Kíli never wanted to sit still when there was mischief they could be getting into. Thorin did wonder for a moment if Galadriel knew all this and was trying to preserve her kingdom for as long as possible.

‘There will be plenty of time for exploration,’ Galadriel assured Frodo as he almost vibrated with the longing to announce that he was not tired. ‘My people will be extremely happy to show you anything you might wish tomorrow. For now, however, there is a feast being prepared in your honour and it would be a shame if you fell asleep in the middle of it.’ The smile she gave Frodo was knowing and he blushed slightly at being read so easily.

‘That would indeed be a shame,’ Bilbo responded to Galadriel then, ‘and I am not so young as I used to be. The rest would be much appreciated.’ Liralin was obviously an elleth who knew a cue when she heard one. She stepped forward, curtsied slightly to her lady and to Thorin and then invited Bilbo to follow her to their rooms.

Thorin took more than a little joy in Dwalin’s moan of horror when he realised that everything in Caras Galdhon was, in fact, at the top of a steep flight of stairs and in the trees.

***

‘All reports say that Erebor thrives under your rule, Thorin,’ Celeborn said when they were sat down that evening, enjoying the sumptuous meal that the elves had served them. Even Ori had not felt the need to ask if there were chips, for the food was suited to a dwarven palate as much as an elven one. ‘Many of my people have taken to requesting that the trade caravans bring them back items which your people make better than we could. My lady was in raptures over the gifts you sent after we visited.’

‘Many of our smiths are dedicating all their efforts to reclaiming the knowledge that was once lost to us,’ Thorin replied. ‘It will take more than my lifetime to do it, but I am confident that it can be done. We learnt these skills once, we can discover them anew if we try.’

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ Celeborn told him sincerely. ‘In this you are very much your Maker’s children.’

‘We have another gift for you, in fact,’ Kíli interjected just then. ‘I have it with me. Them with me, I should say.’

Celeborn called quietly to Galadriel, who was sat next to him but was deep in conversation with Ori and Frodo, apparently prisoner of their boundless curiosity.

‘My love?’ Galadriel queried when she turned to them. It soon became clear that the elves paid close attention to what was happening at the high table, for conversations across the room began to die down.

‘We have gifts from our guests, my dear,’ Celeborn told his wife. ‘I believe Prince Kíli wishes to present them.’

‘Oh, how lovely,’ Galadriel responded, smiling happily. Thorin realised that Galadriel, for all her age and wisdom, was as much a fan of shiny things as most dwarves were. Kíli’s gifts would be very welcome.

‘These were fashioned as thanks for your hospitality, with a little help from our neighbours in Dale,’ Kíli told the two elves. He presented each of them with a beautifully carved wooden box, inscribed by Dale’s master woodworkers with depictions of the Two Trees. Inside, when they were opened, Galadriel and Celeborn found circlets wrought in mithril with designs completed in gold. Galadriel’s was decorated so that the yellow flowers of Lothlórien’s summer appeared to fall from the peaked top and scatter along the edges of the circlet, with two flowers coming to a point at the back. Celeborn’s mimicked the pattern, but his was decorated with the golden leaves of the forest in winter.

‘They are beautiful,’ Galadriel told Kíli after gazing at her gift in silent awe for some moments. The designs were simple, Thorin had to admit, but the joy of Kíli’s work was always in the details. The leaves and flowers were perfect replicas of what could be seen around them. ‘Thank you,’ Galadriel continued. ‘We will treasure them, Prince Kíli.’

‘I am glad you like them,’ Kíli responded, with a genuine expression of relief that made Galadriel’s smile widen. ‘Leaves and flowers aren’t something I craft very often.’ Now Galadriel laughed gaily.

‘No, I do not suppose that they are,’ she answered him. ‘They are done remarkably well, however, so you have no need to fear.’ So saying, she removed the circlet she currently wore and replaced it with her gift, storing the original in the box for safe-keeping. Celeborn copied her and they both rose as one to offer Kíli their thanks once more. A number of the elves applauded then, stopping only when Celeborn and Galadriel were seated once more. Thorin allowed himself a smile as well. Their visit was off to a good start indeed.

***

The rest of the evening was very enjoyable. The dwarves were well-fed and their hosts had been kind enough to provide ale, so that even Dwalin had nothing to complain about. Apart from the stairs and the height, of course, but Dwalin was an expert moaner so Thorin mostly ignored him.

All in all, Thorin was perfectly content. Which should have been his first clue that something unfortunate was going to happen.

Just as the evening was drawing to an end and they were all rising to leave, Bilbo turned too quickly, collided with Fíli and stumbled backwards towards the edge of the platform. Memories of another stumble and fall shot through Thorin and he shouted a warning even as he lunged for Bilbo, catching the hobbit by the very end of his shirt and hauling backwards with all his strength. Thankfully, Bilbo’s clothes were made by Dori and were meant to outlast the end of Middle Earth. The fabric did not tear and Bilbo instead rebounded towards Thorin, falling forwards.

That was when he disappeared.

***

‘Oh, for the Valar’s sake,’ Bilbo grumbled as he hit the floor. He was destined, it appeared, to have a terrible relationship with heights. It was a wonder he had not yet managed to wander off the edge of one of the ridiculously high, completely open bridges in Erebor. Though the fact that he always insisted on walking straight down the middle probably helped.

Now, unfortunately, he was winded and would probably begin their visit with a pretty array of bruises. Including one on his neck where his shirt had dug in when Thorin caught him. How marvellous.

Bilbo’s internal griping was interrupted by cries of alarm from their elven hosts.

‘Where is he?’ Celeborn said anxiously. ‘He did not fall. He could not have, you caught him in time.’

Oh bother. That was inconvenient. His ring had obviously slipped onto his finger. Although Bilbo could have sworn it had been in his pocket. His hands hadn’t been in his pockets, surely. Not when he was about to fall out of a tree.

Again his musing was interrupted, though this time it was by Thorin’s voice.

‘Bilbo,’ his friend said firmly, almost angrily, ‘take the ring off so we can check you’re alright.’

‘There is no need to get into a snit, Thorin,’ Bilbo told the King as he removed his ring and stood up. ‘I did not put it on deliberately.’

‘Why do you even have it with you?’ Thorin muttered accusingly, though he was keeping his voice low. ‘There was hardly going to be any danger here.’

‘It was in my pocket,’ Bilbo answered with equal snippiness. ‘It is not a crime to carry one of my own possessions around with me, Thorin. Besides, one never knows where danger will turn up when you lot are about. This platform just tried to kill me, with the help of your nephew.’

‘It did not,’ Frodo said laughingly, not at all concerned by his uncle’s bad mood. ‘The platform didn’t do anything.’

‘Exactly,’ Bilbo answered, with all the certainty of one who was determined to ignore reason. ‘It was perfectly happy to let me tumble over the edge with no help whatsoever from any railing or lip I might catch hold of.’

‘Besides,’ Frodo continued, ignoring Bilbo but becoming more serious himself, ‘the ring was not in your pocket, it was in your hand. You’ve been playing with it all evening.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ Bilbo said to his nephew. ‘Of course I have not.’

‘You have, Uncle,’ Frodo insisted. ‘I’ve been watching you.’

Now Bilbo was second-guessing himself. He was almost certain that he had not been doing any such thing. He would have noticed. Except that Frodo was not a dishonest lad. He would not lie about this, or even make it up to cause mischief, especially in the middle of all these people. Could Frodo have been mistaken? Or was Bilbo? And why on earth did Thorin have that horrified expression on his face?

‘Master Baggins,’ Lady Galadriel spoke into the silence that seemed to have fallen. ‘I believe you and I need to speak to one another. If you would come with me?’

It was a query, but not one Bilbo could refuse he knew. Suddenly he was extremely nervous. Why did the Lady of the Golden Wood, whom he had been told had great magical power, want to speak to him now? It was about his ring, of course, but what interest did she have in it? It was Bilbo’s after all. None of her concern, really.

Even as he was working himself up into indignation, fist clenching ever more tightly around his ring, Thorin’s voice interrupted his thoughts once more.

‘Come, Bilbo,’ Thorin said gently. ‘We really do need to talk to Lady Galadriel.’

Oh, well. If Thorin thought they needed to then perhaps Bilbo should go. Thorin did not tend to say such things lightly and surely he was not after Bilbo’s ring.

Comforting himself with such thoughts, Bilbo turned to follow Thorin and Galadriel away from the party.

***

This was all very interesting, Eru mused to himself.

When he had first begun planning what needed to happen, he had known only that the hobbits had been important to the future of Middle Earth in some way. In a time before Aulë had begun causing havoc with the course of the future, obviously.

He had not known why they were important, these four little ones, but they had been. So he had readjusted the course of things just slightly. Just enough to make sure that they would not be missing when they might be needed.

He had not expected this though.

Curious indeed.

**********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: I forgot to say that Bilbo's opinions on high things and their lack of railings was borrowed from ISeeFire's wonderful Homeward Bound, which cracks me up every time! As someone who is not a fan of heights herself, I couldn't resist adding it in to this chapter :D


	4. Waifs and Strays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely the strangest creature Merry and Pippin have ever brought home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been up yesterday but I had a technological accident. Never forget to attach something to an email to your beta and then delete it off a work system, before realising said system has no recycle bin. Yes, I really do have luck that bad :D Sorry for the delay.
> 
> Really, really long author note at the bottom regarding characterisation. Feel free to ignore!

Chapter Three: Waifs and Strays

2963

‘Meriadoc, where have you been?’ Merry could hear his mother calling even as he stepped through the side door on his family’s side of the Hall. ‘You should have been home half an hour ago. If I find you’ve been in Farmer Maggot’s fields again….’ Esmeralda Brandybuck was normally a very composed hobbit. The shriek her sentence turned into as she walked into the hallway startled Merry so badly he nearly tripped over an end table. Sméagol, also startled, released a strange whistling noise and darted behind Pippin (who was the only one completely unaffected by the whole scene), peering out with eyes even wider than normal.

‘It’s alright, Aunt Esme,’ Pippin assured her cheerfully. ‘This is Sméagol. We met him in the woods and he was hungry, so we thought he should come for lunch.’

‘You thought,’ Merry corrected. He had no intention of being blamed for this catastrophe.

‘Lunch,’ Merry’s mother uttered faintly. ‘You met somethi…’ at Pippin’s surprisingly stern glare Esmeralda remembered her manners and changed what she had been about to say, ‘ _someone_ in the woods and decided to bring… him for lunch.’

‘He was hungry,’ Pippin repeated, as if this explained everything. Merry sighed again. To Pip it probably did.

‘Is there more carrots?’ Sméagol asked tentatively from his spot behind Pippin. Pippin and Sméagol had ended up having a long conversation about the types of vegetable found in the Shire, and their relative tastiness, as they were walking to Brandy Hall. Pippin had been doing most of the talking, admittedly, but that was nothing new. ‘We likes carrots.’

Hearing Sméagol speak about something so mundane seemed to settle Merry's mother, for now at least. Her eyes turned to the gangling figure in her hallway but, rather than being wide with fright, they were calm.

‘There are more carrots if you want them, Master Sméagol,’ she told him, ‘and a great many other things as well. Come, if you are hungry we should begin eating.’

No one in his family had an ounce of self-preservation apparently.

***

Possibly dangerous hobbit-eater or not, Merry had to admit that the pleasure Sméagol took in the food he was given was charming. His table manners, like his other manners, left much to be desired though. Merry’s mother had recovered from her earlier shock entirely and scolded Sméagol firmly for grabbing food off the platters and immediately stuffing it into his mouth. Despite Merry’s concern, Sméagol was more than cowed by the scolding. He sat quietly and obediently whilst Esmeralda filled his plate with a little of everything, telling Sméagol that he could have more once he had finished what she had given him. She then picked up his knife and fork and gave him a lesson in proper table etiquette, as she often did with Merry’s younger cousins.

When Sméagol was allowed to begin eating once more he did so with one eye on Esmeralda, relaxing when she gave him an approving nod. The more Merry watched Sméagol the more he was confused by him. Eating goblins and orcs and talking about it as if it were an everyday event suggested that Sméagol was both dangerous and possibly evil. Paying attention to lessons on how to behave like a proper hobbit gave a completely different impression. Which one was correct?

Finally, Merry decided he needed more information.

‘Sméagol, why are you looking for a hobbit?’ Merry asked when Sméagol had finished his latest mouthful. Sméagol paused, head cocked to one side, and gave every impression of thinking very hard about the answer.

‘Hobbit tooks precious,’ Sméagol said, repeating his earlier reasoning. ‘Sméagol needs precious back.’

‘Where did you meet this hobbit?’ Esmeralda asked Sméagol curiously. Merry nearly smacked himself. Why had he not thought to ask that very obvious question?

‘Mountains,’ Sméagol pronounced after thinking for a while. That was another thing Merry had noticed about him. Sméagol seemed to have trouble remembering things, or putting his thoughts into words. Merry was almost certain that it had been a long time since Sméagol had had a proper conversation.

‘Mountains,’ Esmeralda repeated softly. ‘There are no mountains for miles. How would a hobbit get to mountains?’ Suddenly her eyes widened with shocked realisation and she turned to Merry with a concerned look on her face. It was at that exact moment that Merry also realised there was only one hobbit Sméagol could be talking about. Only one who had ventured so far from the Shire in recent memory.

‘Well,’ Pippin all-but shouted at that same moment, ‘we’ll have to see if we can work out which hobbit it was and how you can find them. Not right now though. Now is for eating.’ Esmeralda gave Pippin a very relieved glance. Sméagol seemed to find nothing amiss in the statement and continued eating unconcernedly.

***

It was a very good job, Pippin thought to himself, that there was someone with intelligence involved in this situation. Otherwise Merry and Aunt Esme would make Smeagol suspicious with all of their sudden, awkward silences.

Sméagol was behaving perfectly at the moment. He was far too busy demolishing the small mountain of food that he had been given to worry about anything else. That did not mean, however, that letting him wander about the Shire unattended, or sending him off after Bilbo, was a good idea. Sometimes you had to go by instinct. Pippin’s instincts said that something wasn’t right and he was going to listen. At least here they could keep an eye on Smeagol.

Pippin’s train of thought was interrupted by a loud yawn. He turned to look at the culprit and found that Sméagol was blinking sleepily, fork drifting in mid-air as if he’d forgotten what he was doing with it partway through.

‘We need to get you to bed,’ Aunt Esme told Sméagol. ‘Eating so much will make you tired.’

‘Bed?’ Sméagol queried, forcing his eyelids up before they began to droop once more.

‘Come,’ was Aunt Esme’s chuckling reply. ‘I’ll show you.’

So they left the table, a little parade with Aunt Esme at the front and Pippin at the end. Pippin could see Merry thinking everything over, taking puzzle pieces and trying to slot them into place. He was better at that than Pippin, better at making lots of little things add up to one big one. Pippin tried, but he got bored or distracted in the middle and just did whatever felt right instead.

It seemed to work though. It’d got Sméagol here without any trouble and had given them time to decide what to do while Sméagol was asleep. That would give Pippin time to work out how Sméagol knew how to speak Westron but didn’t seem to remember simple things like knives and forks and vegetables and beds.

Although Sméagol seemed perfectly happy to become acquainted with beds. Once Aunt Esme had managed to convince him that he was supposed to sleep on top of the bed instead of underneath it, their new friend clambered on top and wriggled around like a puppy discovering something new and soft. Sméagol muttered to himself quietly for a moment, as Pippin had noticed that he did, and then apparently fell asleep in an instant.

Aunt Esme led them out of the room and into one of the smaller parlours, settling herself in a comfy armchair. Then she pinned Pippin with a look that made it quite clear he was in trouble.

‘Now, Master Peregrin Took,’ she told him firmly, ‘you are going to explain what you are about, bringing strangers into my home for lunch when you clearly do not trust them!’

Oh dear, Pippin thought, this probably wasn’t going to end well. Especially when they got to the part about orcs and goblins.

***

Despite how utterly frustrating Pippin could be at times, he was Merry’s cousin and best friend and Merry didn’t like it when other people scolded him about things. Pip meant well after all. He just didn’t always think things through properly.

‘Mother, I think we should wait until Father is here to go through everything,’ Merry said when she paused. ‘We have a lot to tell you and we should all decide what to do together.’

‘Decide what to do?’ his mother asked. ‘Surely if this Smeagol is somehow untrustworthy we need to send him on his way. We certainly shouldn’t be telling him anything about Bilbo.’

Merry had originally thought exactly the same thing, but he was beginning to see the merits of Pippin’s decision to bring Smeagol to Brandy Hall. At least they had heard their unexpected visitor mention a penchant for eating orcs and goblins and would be on their guard. Others might not be so lucky.

‘Can we just wait for Uncle Saradoc?’ Pippin asked Merry’s mother then. ‘Please? It would be easier to tell the tale once.’

Esmeralda viewed them both with an expression that was half-concerned, half-exasperated. ‘There must always be a tale with you two, mustn’t there?’ she questioned wryly. ‘If ever there’s trouble to be found you’ll be in it. Very well, we will wait.’

Thankfully they didn’t have to wait long. Merry’s father had been out and about in Buckland, checking that all was well, but within an hour of their putting Sméagol to bed he had returned.

‘This is a more solemn group than I expected,’ Saradoc told them teasingly when he entered the parlour. ‘What is wrong with the three of you? Cat got your tongues?’

‘No, my dear, not a cat,’ Esmeralda murmured as Saradoc came to sit on the arm of her chair. ‘I think the stray they have brought us is going to be rather more trouble than a cat.’

‘Stray?’ Saradoc repeated in a questioning tone. ‘Don’t tell me the two of you are trying to save the wildlife of Buckland again.’

That was just unfair, really. He and Pippin had only brought home the one rabbit to be looked after. Well, that and the fox cub but really, you couldn’t leave a baby out without its mother. It would have been dead within a day. Besides, they’d only had to replace the one cupboard of linens afterwards. Pearl had caused far more chaos when she brought the squirrel home. The Tooks had been finding holes and nuts everywhere for months.

‘Sméagol isn’t wildlife,’ Merry told his father firmly. ‘I’m not sure what he is, except that he’s… different.’

‘Different?’ Saradoc said, sounding slightly like an echo. ‘I think you had best tell me exactly what the two of you have been up to and where you found this Sméagol.’

‘We were in the woods this morning,’ Merry started quickly, hoping to skip over this bit, only to be stopped immediately.

‘And which part of the woods would that be, son?’ Saradoc asked cannily, eyes fixed on Pippin’s slightly guilty expression before returning to Merry. ‘Not the part by Bamfurlong, I hope.’

‘That’s really not the most important part of the story,’ Merry tried to explain to his father nervously.

‘Not to you, perhaps,’ Saradoc replied. When Esmeralda rested her hand on his arm, Saradoc looked down at his wife and shared a silent conversation with her. Then he returned his gaze to his son and nephew. ‘Alright, let us leave that for the moment. We _will_ be speaking of this though.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Yes, Uncle Saradoc.’

‘Good,’ Saradoc answered, ‘that is settled. Now, back to what you were saying, Merry.’

‘We were in the woods and resting for a moment before we began to walk back for lunch,’ Merry said, still reluctant to admit exactly what they had been up to. ‘I’d got up to go and get a drink from the brook we were near and then I heard Pip calling for me.’ At this point Pippin took up the tale.

‘Almost as soon as Merry got up I’d heard this rustling sound from one of the trees nearby,’ he told his aunt and uncle. ‘I thought it was just a bird or a squirrel or something, but then I realised it was much too big. Before I had time to think about getting a rock, or hiding, or anything like that, there was a creature standing there looking at me. That’s when I shouted for Merry.’

‘What sort of creature?’ Saradoc questioned, looking worried but reassured by the fact that the boys and his wife sat safely before him.

‘We don’t really know,’ Merry answered. ‘He looks… odd. Not like a hobbit, but he has our ears and our feet, I think. He would be hobbit-sized if he stood upright, probably. He’s not as big as a man.’

‘He doesn’t stand upright, though,’ Pippin put in. ‘Even when he first reached the ground he was crouched over and he moves strangely, almost like a spider, as if he could go backwards or sideways as easily as he could go forwards.’

‘I thought maybe he was just a slightly person-like animal at first,’ Merry told them. ‘I was going to get a rock and try to drive him off like I would if he was a wild dog. Only then he spoke to us. Told us we were hobbits. No animal I’ve ever met does that.’ Merry paused, trying to decide how to explain the next part, but Pippin caught his eye and he continued instead.

‘It’s so strange, Uncle Saradoc. He knows his name and what we are, he knows how to speak and how to… to think, to works things out. He doesn’t know the simplest things though. He didn’t know why it was rude to demand more of something he’d been given. He didn’t know that you could ask nicely or say thank you. He doesn’t use a knife and fork, he doesn’t know what a bed is, but he knows that a hobbit took something of his and he’s searched for hobbits so that he can get it back. I don’t understand what he is.’

‘He could be dangerous,’ Merry interjected, deciding it was important to get that part of the explanation in as soon as possible. ‘He spoke to us of the things he eats and included orcs and goblins on that list without even thinking about it.’

‘He said hobbits aren’t food though,’ Pippin argued, looking solely at Merry and apparently determined to be fair. ‘You heard him Merry, he did.’

‘If he can speak and think then he can lie, Pip,’ Merry responded. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

‘Do you think he would?’ Esmeralda asked then, interrupting their quiet argument. ‘Did it seem that he was lying to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Merry answered her honestly. ‘I couldn’t tell, but if he did want to eat us, why not just do it then when it was only the two of us out on our own?’

‘I imagine the only way we will know for sure that he is lying is if he tries to kill us,’ Saradoc said dryly, ‘which is something I would rather avoid. I am curious about why you brought him here if you did not think you could trust him, boys.’

‘It wasn’t Merry, it was me,’ Pippin told Saradoc firmly. ‘Merry wanted to leave him there but I thought he should come with us. I don’t like the thought of anything eating goblins, but they are evil. Perhaps they are the only ones he would attack. We don’t know. It seems unfair to judge him without knowing more and silly to leave him wandering the Shire if he _is_ dangerous. The only things I knew for certain were that he was lost, Uncle Saradoc, and he was sad. He’s lost something he calls his precious and he wants it back.’

‘Something that Bilbo Baggins has,’ Esmeralda interjected. ‘He’s the only hobbit it could be. Sméagol said he met this hobbit in the mountains and Bilbo is the only one to travel so far.’

‘Unless it was Frodo,’ Saradoc said with a slight laugh, ‘but he’s a bit young yet for adventuring. So we have two problems it would seem,’ he continued slowly. ‘We have a visitor who may be dangerous to us, particularly if crossed. We also know that he is searching for Bilbo, but we do not know what it is that Bilbo has that he wants or what Sméagol is willing to do to get it back. So we do not know if we could cause Bilbo harm by telling this Sméagol where to find him.’

‘Is there anything else I need to know boys?’ Saradoc asked them. He looked at Pippin, who was fidgeting nervously, plucking at a thread hanging from the chair covering, eyes darting from one person to another ceaselessly. When he realised Saradoc was aiming the comment at him, Pippin opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

‘Pip?’ Merry heard himself ask with concern. ‘What is it?’

‘I…’ Pippin stuttered for a moment, then the rest tumbled out in a rush. ‘I think Sméagol might be mad.’

‘Mad?’ Saradoc queried. ‘Have you upset him in some way?’

‘No, Uncle Saradoc, not… not angry mad. Mad like people think Bilbo is, only dangerous.’

‘Because he eats orcs and goblins,’ Merry agreed. ‘That’s why we told them, Pip.’

‘Except you didn’t hear him, Merry,’ Pippin said solemnly, ‘afterwards when we were walking. Most of the time he was happy but once or twice he was talking to himself. Only not to himself…’

‘Pip, I don’t understand,’ Merry told him in frustration. Pippin wasn’t normally this unclear and Merry didn’t like it. He always knew what Pip was saying.

‘It was like there were two of him,’ Pippin finally got out. ‘Two people in one body. One was the Sméagol who ate lunch with us, the one I think we can trust. The other was scary. I didn’t like the way he looked or the way he talked. I could see that person eating things no person would touch.’

‘You didn’t say anything,’ Merry said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I couldn’t do it with him right there,’ Pippin pointed out. ‘We have to act like we aren’t scared or we’ll remind him that we should be scared of him.’

That. That was Pippin-thinking if ever Merry had heard it. He wondered what it said about Merry that he understood it completely.

At this point the adults decided it was time they were involved in the conversation again. Saradoc cleared his throat to get their attention and looked at them sombrely.

‘Boys, it is not the way of Brandybucks to turn away those who need our help, especially when we know so little of them,’ he informed them, ‘but it is also not our way to risk our families. All you have told me of this Sméagol concerns me and little of it sounds like anything we have experience of. Hopefully there are others who can help him instead.’

‘You aren’t going to send him away, are you?’ Pippin asked worriedly. ‘What if he can’t find anything to eat and decides to try hobbit after all?’

Saradoc held up his hand for silence. ‘I am not going to turn him out into the lane, Pippin. I mean only that I do not think he can stay here without question, as he might if he were merely a traveller who had left his home and was not sure when he was going back. I will send for the Rangers and ask for their help. They see far more of the outside world than we have. Perhaps they will know who or what Sméagol is, or even what might ail him and how it could be cured.’

‘What will we tell him?’ Merry questioned. ‘He thinks that we are going to help him find the hobbit who took his precious.’

‘I would give much to know what that precious is and how Bilbo came to take it from him,’ Saradoc said almost absently. ‘Not in all the tales I remember him telling did Bilbo ever mention this. No matter,’ he continued, shaking his head sharply. ‘Sméagol will be told the truth, to some extent. That we think we know who his hobbit was but he left the Shire many years ago and we are no longer sure where he is. We will tell him that the Rangers might be better able to help Sméagol find him and so we are waiting for them to come. Hopefully that will keep him calm for now. In the meantime we treat Sméagol kindly, feed him well and show him what we can of hobbit life, but we remain wary. If he is mad, as Pippin thinks, then there is no telling what he might do.’

‘We can show him how to be a hobbit,’ Pippin said, clearly struck by the idea. ‘We’ll show him how to behave and the fun things to do and maybe he’ll forget about his precious and whatever made him mad.’

‘ _You_ are supposed to be going home today,’ Esmeralda reminded Pippin firmly, but Pippin merely waved a hand.

‘We can send Mother a message,’ he told his aunt blithely. ‘She probably expected me to stay anyway. Or to come home with Merry in tow. She won’t mind if I stay.’

With that, Pippin hopped down and announced he was going to check on their guest. Merry stood to follow him, thinking that none of them should be alone with Smeagol, but Saradoc stopped him for a moment. His eyes were grave.

‘Pippin sees the best in everyone,’ Saradoc told his son. ‘You know that better than we do. Even if he knows that Smeagol might be untrustworthy he might not be as careful as he should. I fear this time it will only hurt him in the end. Try to help him guard himself, Merry. Sméagol is not like the fox cub. It might not just be Pippin’s heart that breaks if he cannot be tamed.’

Merry nodded, not able to think of anything to say, and went after Pippin. He would do his best.

***

Three days later, when a Ranger had finally been found and had come to Brandy Hall, Merry was fairly certain that Pippin’s heart would break anyway if Sméagol turned out to be dangerous. Merry didn’t think his own would be particularly safe either. No sign of the Sméagol who should be feared had been seen. He had accepted the news that the Brandybucks were trying to find someone to help him with complete equanimity. With gratitude, even, for Pippin and Merry had spent the morning teaching him to use please and thank you correctly and Sméagol hadn’t even needed prompting to use the new words then. Though Saradoc’s attempts to find out what the precious was had ended in frustration, they did not believe Sméagol was being deliberately obstructive. He simply did not seem to know how else to explain except that it was ‘the precious’.

Not all of the things they tried to show Sméagol went easily. Clothes, for example, were not something he enjoyed at first. Like a very young faunt he wriggled when they tried to dress him and stripped the clothes off as soon as he was out of their sight for more than a minute. In the brief time the clothes were on he complained that they itched and scratched at himself constantly.

In the end, it was the warmth that changed his mind. Esmeralda found the softest things that they owned and tried those instead, telling Sméagol they were like the blankets on his bed except that he could take them with him. Sméagol spent some hours relearning how to move about, twisting and turning this way and that, before announcing that he was satisfied.

‘They is better than old clothes,’ Sméagol told Esmeralda graciously. ‘Old clothes were hard and not warm. We will keeps them.’ As Merry was fairly certain the old clothes Sméagol spoke of had been caked with mud and turned to rags by years of hard wear, he was not surprised that the new clothes Sméagol had been given met with greater approval.

A few days weren’t going to make much difference to Sméagol’s appearance, especially as starved as he was, but there was a slight change. Not a visible increase in his weight, but a slightly healthier tone to his skin, perhaps. He no longer looked as if he was starving and he clearly adored the frequency of hobbit meals. Sméagol even became a curious eater, willing to try anything they put in front of him, though he did declare some foods ‘nasty’ and refused to try them more than once. Merry could understand the feeling. He had no taste for beetroot, no matter how determinedly his mother tried to feed it to him.

It was easy to forget the danger when Sméagol was like this. He was so eager to please in most things, so attentive to anything they told him. They discovered his love of riddles and games and spent hours challenging him to riddling contests. Some of those he told sounded like hobbit riddles but were in no books or stories known to them. Saradoc told Merry and Pippin one night that, despite how ridiculous it sounded, he was beginning to believe that Sméagol was very, very old indeed.

***

The Ranger who arrived was a younger man, as far as Pippin could tell. He had the slightly harsh look that rangers often wore, a look that suggested their world was far removed from the world that hobbits lived in. It was one of the reasons that most hobbits avoided the Rangers or seemed to have forgotten their existence, Pippin had decided. Those hobbits didn’t know, or want to know, what happened beyond their borders. They did not wish to be reminded that there might be dangers outside, dangers that these Men kept from their doors.

No Ranger was ever refused anything they requested by anyone in the Shire, of course, not anyone who deserved to be called a hobbit anyway. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins did not count, Merry had told Pippin when he was younger. Bilbo had told them so. Pippin didn’t remember, anymore than he remembered Bilbo. Even so, Rangers weren’t invited to tea or seen at market. They patrolled the borders of the Shire but rarely appeared within.

It was by chance that the bounder Uncle Saradoc had sent had even found a Ranger. The bounders knew of places that Rangers could sometimes be found and had tried two before finding this Ranger at the third. Though Pippin could not have explained why if asked, he felt grateful that it was this Ranger who had been found. The Man felt trustworthy, safe, in a way that the few other Men Pippin had encountered had not.

The Ranger entered Brandy Hall as Pippin imagined most Men entered hobbit homes; ducking to get through the door and weaving slightly to try and avoid low beams and hanging lights. Pippin did not laugh, much as he might have liked to. It was not the Ranger’s fault that he was so unnaturally tall or that he was forced to walk like he had spent too much time in the Green Dragon.

Once the Man had found somewhere he could stand properly, Pippin realised just how tall he was. No wonder, he thought, that these Men protected the Shire so well. They were giants.

‘Master Saradoc,’ the Ranger began, ‘I am Strider of the Dúnedain. I was told you searched for a Ranger.’

‘Then you were told the truth,’ Saradoc informed him. ‘Come, though, let us sit down. Our chairs might not be the best size for you but at least none of us will hurt our necks while we talk.’

At that Strider smiled, and Pippin experienced that feeling of safety again. It was like being with Merry, except that Merry and he were equal in most things and Strider was clearly far more capable of surviving any danger than either of them.

‘I would appreciate it,’ Strider told Pippin’s uncle. ‘I am sure there was a rock under my head when I slept last night, though try as I might I could not find it.’

‘They’re invisible,’ Pippin said then, though he had not really meant to. ‘Those rocks, I mean,’ he continued when Strider turned to look at him questioningly. ‘I think they follow you as well. It doesn’t matter where you sleep, there’s always one there and you can never find it in the night or the next morning.’

Strider laughed, a true laugh though it was quieter than most Pippin had heard.

‘Very true, Master Hobbit,’ he agreed. ‘That particular rock has travelled a great many miles with me if that is the case. Perhaps I should not think so unkindly of it.’

When Pippin caught sight of Merry, his cousin was shaking his head. Inching closer to him, Merry murmured under his breath, ‘Trust you to make him laugh before he’s been in the Hall five minutes, Pip.’ Pippin only smiled to himself. That was his greatest talent, after all. He might as well make use of it.

What passed after that was much like the original conversation with Merry’s parents, except that Pippin didn’t have to say much because Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esme told most of it. When the tale had been told, however, Strider turned his attention to Merry and Pippin and his gaze was astute.

‘Sméagol did no harm to either of you?’ he asked, watching them carefully. ‘He has not threatened you or given you cause for concern?’

Merry shook his head and Pippin thought carefully for a moment before saying, ‘Sméagol doesn’t worry me. Not really. The other person he talks to, the other half of himself, that scares me.’

‘Your uncle mentioned this but I would like your impression of it, Master Peregrin, since you are the one who has truly seen it.’

‘Oh, I’m Pippin,’ Pippin told him before saying anything else. He thought again, wanting to say this better than he had before. ‘It is like Sméagol is the same as any of us,’ Pippin said finally. ‘He knows that there are right things to do and wrong things to do and he has to decide which. Only he doesn’t make the decision in his head. He makes it out loud. The good part and the bad part talk to each other and whichever of them wins decides what Sméagol will do. When you watch it is as if you are watching two people having an argument, except that both of them are in the same body.’

Strider nodded slowly before apparently coming to a decision and turning to Uncle Saradoc again.

‘I do not believe that what ails your Sméagol is a simple problem,’ Strider informed him. ‘I am not the most widely travelled of my people but I have heard of no illness such as this. I would like to meet this Sméagol before I make a final decision, but it is my belief that the best thing I could do for him would be to take him to Rivendell, to meet my foster father, Lord Elrond. He is the greatest healer I know and he has the best chance of understanding what has happened. Even if he cannot, he may be able to sense something of Sméagol, of whether it is right to let him carry on his way and guide him to the hobbit you speak of.’

‘That seems like a wise course,’ Uncle Saradoc agreed and Aunt Esme nodded, though she looked slightly sad. They had worried that Pippin would not want Sméagol to go, Pippin knew, but Aunt Esme always got attached to things just like Pippin did. Pippin’s mother was the same.

‘I’ll go and get Sméagol,’ Pippin volunteered. They had left Sméagol napping, as he often did in the early afternoon. Pippin wasn’t sure if Sméagol did it because he might be old like Uncle Saradoc thought, and needed a nap like Pippin’s old relatives did, or if Sméagol just liked the bed he had been given and wanted to spend more time there. The fact that Sméagol was almost always awake when Pippin went in made him think it was the second option.

‘Are you awake, Sméagol?’ Pippin called as he knocked on the door and went in. ‘There’s someone we want you to meet.’

Sméagol paused mid-motion, half on and half off the bed. Pippin giggled because he couldn’t help himself, then laughed more loudly when Sméagol looked down at himself and joined in.

‘You’d be very good at musical statues,’ Pippin told Sméagol as he giggled. When Sméagol opened his mouth, expression curious, Pippin pre-empted him. ‘I’ll explain later. Can you come with me now? We have a visitor and he wants to meet you.’

‘Ranger?’ Sméagol asked quickly as he made his own, unique way towards the door. They had told Smeagol that they were waiting for a Ranger to come and help him, as Uncle Saradoc had suggested, and Smeagol had asked the same question every time there was a knock on the door for the last three days. ‘Sméagol go to find precious now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Pippin answered as they made the short walk down the hall. ‘I think he might take you to Rivendell to see the elves, so that they can help you as well.’

‘Elves,’ Sméagol looked wary and still had that look on his face when he entered the room Strider and Pippin’s family sat in. ‘Elves is good?’ Sméagol asked Pippin.

‘Elves are very good,’ Merry answered in Pippin’s stead. ‘They are very wise and they know lots of things that we don’t know.’

Sméagol looked unimpressed.

‘ _We_ knows things hobbits doesn’t know,’ he informed Merry flatly. ‘Hobbits is not knowing _lots_ of things.’

‘So are Sméagols,’ Pippin answered, gleefully mangling grammar and poking Sméagol gently in the stomach. ‘The elves might know about more things like carrots and beds.’

‘Elves is good,’ Sméagol declared then, though the smile he gave Pippin was teasing in turn. ‘Sméagol not need hobbits after all.’

Pippin clutched at his heart and pretended to fall to the floor and Sméagol laughed loudly, Strider and the others joining in.

‘I fear you are no longer the wittiest person in the room, Master Pippin,’ Strider announced. ‘You have been slain in battle.’

‘Sméagol has beaten us all at one time or another,’ Esmeralda told him with a smile. ‘He is a master of riddles and can play for hours.’

‘Indeed,’ Strider answered with interest. ‘Might I ask where you learned these riddles, Master Sméagol?’

It was not a question that the hobbits had asked Sméagol outright before, having noticed how Sméagol struggled to answer questions about the past. Now Sméagol’s face turned befuddled, as it often did when he was asked to remember something. Merry stepped forward and placed a hand on his back, a gentle encouragement.

‘Let it come,’ Merry counselled their guest. ‘You know the answer.’ Sméagol appeared to relax slightly and then finally his face cleared.

‘Grandmother,’ Sméagol told Strider. ‘Grandmother taught us.’

‘Then your grandmother was a wise woman?’ Strider asked, voice still casual but gaze piercing, as if the exchange was far more than simple pleasantry.

‘Grandmother was…’ Sméagol started, ‘Grandmother was leader. All answers was from her.’

Though this meant little to Pippin, except that Sméagol had had to do as his grandmother told him, as any hobbit did, Strider had apparently gained exactly the answer he sought. Men were odd, Pippin decided.

‘Sméagol,’ Strider asked then, ‘will you come with me to Rivendell? It is the home of Lord Elrond and I believe he will be able to help you.’

‘We goes to Rivendell,’ Sméagol agreed easily, his nod mimicking the gesture he had often seen the hobbits make. ‘Hobbits and Sméagol see elves and find precious.’

‘We’ll need to go and pack,’ Pippin added. ‘It’s going to be a long journey.’ It was only when silence fell that Pippin paused in his walk to the door and turned to look back at the others in the room.

‘What?’ he asked Merry when Merry gave him a stunned look. ‘Did you expect me to suggest we walk all the way to Rivendell with one shirt and pair of trousers and no food?’

‘Pip,’ Merry answered slowly, speaking as he would to a faunt, ‘you know how far it is to Rivendell, don’t you?’

‘I could hardly forget after you spent the best part of a week working it out a few months ago,’ Pippin replied with a sigh. ‘Three days from here to Bree, then from Bree to Rivendell is about 18 days if you’re taking the Great East Road and don’t turn off it.’

‘That’s almost a month, Pip, and another month back. Probably many months in between because it will be the end of autumn by the time we get there,’ Merry pointed out. Pippin really wished Merry would realise that Pippin could actually count.

‘Yes, Merry, I know,’ Pippin responded impatiently. ‘A month there and a month back, which means we’ll need to pack plenty to keep us going.’

‘Merry not coming,’ Sméagol said sadly from one side. ‘Merry think Pippin not come. Too far for hobbits.’

‘What?’ Pippin exclaimed again. ‘It isn’t too far. What was the point of all those maps and plans if you never even intended to go?’ he asked Merry disbelievingly.

‘I did mean to go,’ Merry explained defensively. ‘Someday. When we’re older. You haven’t even reached your majority, Pip.’

‘Nor had Frodo,’ Pippin answered indignantly, before remembering that he needed to be careful on this subject. ‘He went travelling and he went a lot further than Rivendell. Why shouldn’t we?’

‘Your mother would never speak to me again,’ Aunt Esme interjected in a tone that suggested the subject was finished with. ‘I would rather not be at outs with my sister, Peregrin. Besides which, perhaps Master Strider does not wish for three companions on the journey when he might only have one.’

Pippin turned to Strider, who held his hands up and shook his head.

‘This discussion is for your family, Master Pippin,’ the Ranger declared. ‘Do not look to me to make the decision.’ Perhaps Pippin did not like him so much after all.

Then Pippin felt a hand on his arm. He turned and found Sméagol crouching at his side.

‘Sméagol go,’ his new friend told him. ‘Pippin stay. No fighting.’

Pippin span towards Aunt Esme and glared ferociously, angry that Sméagol felt he had to go alone just to keep Pippin’s family happy.

‘He doesn’t have anyone else!’ Pippin cried. ‘Sméagol doesn’t know anyone else except us. You want him to travel a month alone with someone he doesn’t know, to a place where there are more people he doesn’t know, who might not even be able to help him. How is that fair?’

‘He’s only known you three days,’ Aunt Esme reminded him, though her voice was not as firm.

‘It’s better than not at all,’ Pippin argued. ‘How is he going to learn how to be a hobbit again if there’s no one there to show him? What if he goes on his own and he forgets again?’ Pippin’s voice broke slightly then. He didn’t know why this meant so much to him. What was Sméagol, really? A creature they had met in the woods a few days before. Possibly dangerous. Possibly mad. Definitely not a true hobbit. Pippin didn’t know why it mattered so much. It just did. Some part of him was frightened to let Sméagol go alone. More frightened than he was of what might happen if Pippin went with him.

‘Mother,’ Merry said finally in the quiet that followed Pippin’s outburst. ‘The trip would be farther than most hobbits go, but we wouldn’t be the first to leave the Shire and we wouldn’t go the farthest. Pippin’s right. We said that we would help Sméagol and it isn’t right he should have to go on his own. Maybe if he didn’t want us to go, but he does.’

‘You mother will never speak to me again,’ Aunt Esme repeated as she stared at Pippin, but this time she sounded resigned. Then she looked at Strider intently. ‘Can you look after them?’ she asked him. ‘Can you keep them safe?’

‘I do not believe they will be in any more danger than any other traveller upon the Road,’ Strider answered, ‘and it is far safer now than it was some years ago. Lord Elrond’s patrols ride out further and the Rangers patrol as far as we can. I would do everything I can to keep them safe.’

‘We will help,’ Sméagol added in. ‘We travels far and we is safe. We knows wild places.’

‘Very well,’ Saradoc answered for both of them after another moment’s thought. ‘Pippin, I will speak to your parents and explain that you had my permission to go. You would not be the first Took to go adventuring and Paladin always said he wished he had gone with Belladonna when she travelled. Perhaps that will help.’

Pippin thought it probably would. He had been traipsing over hill and dale around the Shire for years with only Merry for company and none of his family had ever tried to stop it, though Pippin knew some of the more conservative hobbits thought he was far too young. Pippin did not see what difference it made. Nothing that wanted to hurt him was going to stop to ask how old he was first, any more than it would ask his name or his race.

‘Merry,’ Saradoc continued, ‘you have a good head on your shoulders most of the time,’ Pippin chose to ignore the implication that he didn’t. ‘I trust you will do as Master Strider tells you and remember that he knows far more than you do about journeying, no matter how many books you have read or maps you have looked at.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Merry said seriously, face earnest. ‘I’ll be careful.’

‘How soon can you be ready, Master Hobbits?’ Strider asked them. ‘The sooner we set out, the sooner we will arrive.’

‘We’ll need to find things for Pippin and Sméagol,’ Merry answered. ‘They have some here anyway, but we’ll have to hunt out my older things for them and we don’t really know what else we’ll need.’

‘If you can give me a list and a day I will manage, Master Strider,’ Esmeralda assured him. ‘This is a big hall, there isn’t much I don’t have about somewhere.’

And so it was decided. To Rivendell they would go, Strider, Sméagol, Merry and Pippin, most likely to winter there, and would return in the spring.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I would just post the chapter and let it explain my views, unless one of you had a particular question and I answered in the comments. My version of Sméagol is rather different to the books and films, however, so I figured a bit more explanation couldn't hurt. It has been a few years since I last read Lord of the Rings and I didn’t think people would want to wait another three months while I tried to get around to reading the whole thing, so Remember will mostly be drawn from the films, as History was. This means that my Sméagol is mostly the result of my take on Andy Serkis’ Gollum.
> 
> I have heard suggestions (by which I mean that ISeeFire told me that some people say :D) that Sméagol was inherently evil in some way and that is why he killed for the ring before ever truly coming into contact with it. I also know that in the films he is, in the end, unable to overcome its influence and eventually it kills him. I have a slightly different take on what happened though. From what I remember, the ring is almost sentient and able to decide what it does or does not do. In The Hobbit it abandons Gollum because he has outlived his usefulness. When Sméagol first gets hold of it, I see the ring as being even more desperate. It has been in the river, unable to return to its master, for years. It clearly wants to return to Sauron and when it is found by Déagol it has two options. They’re both fascinated by it but only one can keep it. The ring doesn’t care which, it calls to both and they both fight for it, but Sméagol wins. I don’t think Sméagol is wholly evil. We are told by Tolkien that he lies to himself about how he came to own the ring, just as Bilbo lies to the dwarves about how he came to have it. I believe that someone entirely evil wouldn’t need to lie themselves about what they had done to their cousin because it wouldn’t even register as the wrong thing to do.
> 
> Anyway, on to the more relevant point. My Sméagol meets Bilbo when he has been without the ring for longer than in the book. They also meet in completely different circumstances. Sméagol is remembering his past and the life he used to have and Bilbo encourages that. He sings the old songs, he talks to Sméagol about hobbits, reminds him that he might have been one, and tells him about things like the sun and the grass. So, when Sméagol finally ventures outside, the memories aren’t as dim as they were. He wanders the world looking for his precious and for the hobbit that stole it, because that is the only purpose he can find. The ring is all that he has had all these years. Only this time he isn’t searching in the dark and musing only on his own bitterness. Gollum is there, he is angry at Bilbo and wants his precious back, but there is also the sun. There are things out there that Sméagol remembers and he remembers that once he thought them beautiful. My Sméagol learns to find them beautiful again. 
> 
> Even more importantly, when he stumbles upon two young hobbits, naïve for the most part and kind at heart, they don’t drive him off as people always have before. They feed him food because he’s hungry. They take him home and expect him to act like a hobbit, and because Sméagol remembers being a hobbit these things call to him. Now there are still two conflicting parts of him, but they are both being given encouragement and the better half is getting more of it. In the film, possibly also in the book, I think Sam is a major cause of Gollum’s reversion to his darker self. Sam has his reasons, of course, excellent ones in fact, but his distrust and contempt encourage the bitter, angry, hateful side of Gollum. Merry and Pippin don’t and so they see a different Sméagol. The one we see in The Hobbit, who loves playing riddle games. The one we see in Lord of the Rings, who comes to trust and to care for Frodo a little and who drives his Gollum side away, thinking him gone forever.
> 
> So, that’s my reasoning, as far as it goes. Apparently I’ve put far too much thought into this, so I figured I might as well share some of it with you!


	5. Mishaps, Misunderstandings and Mischance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Journeying proves to be a challenge for Strider and his charges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for how long this has taken. Life has been manic this week and I suspect the weekend won't be much better. Hopefully the job interview I have on Monday will improve things a bit, but chapters might be a bit slow for a while. I hope you find that they were worth the wait.
> 
> As always, I have to credit ISeeFire for a lot of this chapter. Particularly for pointing out places where I had accidentally skipped things out!

Chapter Four: Mishaps, Misunderstandings and Mischance

2963 

The journey to Bree was easy enough that Merry couldn’t understand why he’d never attempted it before. Strider had initially suggested that they might go through the Old Forest to shorten the journey. Merry had no doubt that to a Ranger that was an easy enough trek. Merry, on the other hand, had been raised on tales of the strangeness of the Old Forest. Of trees that could think, that moved and talked to each other and would try to trap an unwary traveller. He was reluctant to come face to face with the truths that might lie behind such tales.

The deciding factor, however, proved to be Sméagol. Though he had otherwise had little to say about their journey, he hissed and spat at the mention of the Old Forest, snarling about nasty trees and their trickses.

‘Tricks?’ Strider asked Sméagol with interest. ‘What sort of tricks?’

‘Quiet, they is,’ Sméagol replied, voice almost as snarl. ‘All quiet and calm and lets you sit down and rest. Then tries to eats you, they does. Nasty, tricksy trees.’

‘It does not seem to have worked, Master Sméagol,’ Strider reminded him softly. Merry could see the look in the Man’s eyes, his realisation of what Pippin had been talking about, how quickly Sméagol could grow angry and fierce. ‘You are here, are you not?’

‘We is too clever for trees,’ Sméagol agreed, his smile not quite happy due to the sly edge it held. ‘Thinks they has us, they does, but we is not sleeping. We is too clever, too quick.’

‘So you are,’ Pippin concurred heartily. ‘Clever enough to be here with us now and to warn us about those trees. We'll avoid them now, won’t we, Strider?’ Pippin gave the Ranger a hopeful look and Strider smiled slightly in return.

‘We will, indeed, Master Pippin,’ Strider answered. ‘There is no point shortening the journey if we only make it more dangerous and harder to complete. Let us go around the forest instead and join the Road at the Brandywine Bridge. We should be quick enough that way.’

‘Road is good,’ Sméagol added, apparently recovered from his fit of anger. Though Sméagol often gave the impression of having gone many years without company, he was quick enough to discern others’ moods. Seeing that Pippin was standing at some distance from him, tense despite his cheerful demeanour, Sméagol approached slowly and smiled at Pippin. ‘Road is quick and then we has beds again.’

At this, Pippin looked down and tried a smile of his own, visibly making an effort to shake off the tension that had fallen over him.

‘If you are that eager for a bed, you will not like the trip after Bree,’ he teased Sméagol. ‘I don’t think we’ll find many beds on the Great East Road.’

‘Probably not,’ Merry chipped in, hoping to lighten the mood further. He wanted Pippin to be wary, yes, but at the same time he didn’t want him frightened. Being the eldest was very difficult sometimes. There was so much to think about. ‘We will have to dream of them instead, until we reach Rivendell.’

‘You can be assured that there will be plenty of beds there,’ Strider reassured them. ‘I spent many years in Lord Elrond’s household and I can only think of one time I was obliged to sleep on the floor.’

‘Lord Elrond made you sleep on the floor?’ Pippin queried in a startled tone. ‘Everyone says he is very kind and wise.’

‘So he is,’ Strider answered. ‘Unfortunately, his sons are neither as kind nor as wise. They are unwise enough to allow a lad who thinks himself a man to drink rather more than he ought, and unkind enough to leave him to sleep on the floor outside his room when he fails to make it all the way inside.’

Pippin gave a high-pitched giggle that made him clap his hand over his mouth in embarrassment. It was things like that that tended to remind Merry of his cousin’s youth. He still had those squeaky moments every so often, usually when he wasn’t expecting them. Sméagol, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his mirth.

‘No beds for Ranger,’ he crowed joyfully. ‘Only hard, cold floor.’

‘A hard, cold floor, a throbbing head and a face so red I might have been used as a lamp,’ Strider agreed solemnly, the light in his eyes their only clue that he was not serious. ‘I do not think I have ever drunk quite so much again. I certainly did not in the ten years that followed.’

‘Then perhaps Lord Elrond’s sons are wiser than they appear,’ Merry suggested slyly. He held in his own laughter when Strider glanced at him and winked.

‘Not at all,’ Strider argued. ‘They are simply obnoxious people with no sense of compassion.’

The party made their way onward, Pippin regaling them with a number of the more embarrassing incidents that had taken place in and around the Green Dragon. Sméagol’s burst of ire was soon behind them.

***

Bree was a strange place to Pippin. In many ways it looked much like the settlements of the Shire. There was the same bustle. The same talking, laughing and teasing could be heard if you stopped a while to listen. Only everything was twice as high as it needed to be. Chairs, tables, gates, even the bar, were all far above Pippin’s head height. Added to that, the place felt somehow duller. In the Shire everything was green and colourful. Here it was all dark wood and muddy paths. Even knowing how close he was to the Shire, Pippin suddenly felt very far from home.

As he often did when he felt uncomfortable, Pippin edged closer to Merry, who gave him an absent smile.

‘The innkeeper told Strider that they’ve hobbit-sized rooms,’ Merry informed him. ‘We can go in there and rest before dinner. It will be stew of some kind, but Strider’s been here before and he says the food is good enough.’

‘That probably a good thing,’ Pippin answered, a little more dryly than he had planned. ‘Sméagol’s stomach was rumbling even before we got here.’

Sméagol himself was making no comment at all, and Pippin had a feeling that he was still a little irked by the cloak they had bundled him into before they entered Bree. Strider had been entirely apologetic, telling Sméagol that he knew it was unfair but that he was different enough that people might get the wrong impression if they saw him. Sméagol, like Pippin, had had little trouble translating this into, ‘People might well panic if they catch sight of you, given that you look like a walking skeleton with really big eyes.’ Their companion had accepted the cloak as a necessary evil, but he was grumbling under his breath quite a bit.

Shaking off the cloak was the first thing that Sméagol did once they were safely inside the room that Merry, Pippin and he would share. Pippin assumed Strider was sleeping elsewhere, unless he planned to fold himself in half to fit onto one of the beds. Sméagol then climbed onto a bed and burrowed in sulkily.

‘Not eat with cloak on,’ he muttered just loudly enough to be heard.

‘No,’ Strider replied, ‘I think we will eat in our rooms. There’s no need to draw any more attention to ourselves than necessary.’

‘You really think people would react that badly?’ Merry asked him with some concern. Pippin was worried as well. They could not afford to have trouble in Bree, not when they were so completely outnumbered here.

‘Sméagol is, without meaning to be rude, like no one else I have ever met,’ Strider told them, ‘and I am certain I have travelled more than almost anyone in this town. People do not like to be confronted with the unknown, Master Hobbits. It makes them nervous.’

‘We not want to see _people_ anyway,’ Sméagol asserted, tone as sulky as his demeanour. Pippin wasn’t fooled though. It had to hurt to be treated like something that had to be hidden away to avoid upsetting others. He climbed up onto the bed and patted Sméagol’s back gently.

‘They’re just silly,’ he reassured Sméagol, ‘that’s all. They don’t know any better.’

Sméagol didn’t reply, but neither did he continue his grumbling any longer. Not long afterwards he had apparently fallen asleep.

‘The Elves won’t react like this, will they?’ Pippin questioned Strider anxiously. ‘If they will then we’d be better off not going.’

‘I very much doubt that they will,’ Strider answered. ‘They will likely be curious, but he will not frighten them. There is enough power in Rivendell, in one form or another, that they would have no reason to be fearful.’

That was not quite as comforting as Strider probably meant it to be, Pippin mused. He would just have to hope that the Elves did have more sense than Men. Much of their plan revolved around keeping Sméagol calm and happy. Feeling as if he was under attack was unlikely to do either.

***

Their departure from Bree went smoothly, thankfully. No one was very curious about the Man travelling with three Hobbits, so they gained little attention. Even those who _were_ slightly curious assumed that the Hobbits had come as far as they meant to and that the party would now be returning to the Shire. Neither Merry nor Pippin corrected them.

Sméagol was probably the most relieved when they exited the gate and headed out onto the road once more. Once they were out of sight of Bree he abandoned the cloak on the ground and executed a series of leaps that made the other three laugh helplessly for some time. Strider scolded him for dropping the cloak in the mud, but he didn’t sound particularly annoyed and Sméagol just grinned at him before breaking into song. After a fashion.

‘No more cloak, no more cloak, no more stupid Bree-ee!

We is out, we is out, we is out and free-ee!’

Pippin heard himself snort in a completely undignified manner, relieved that no one particularly important was there to hear him.

‘I do not think you were born for the life of a minstrel, Sméagol,’ he told his friend through his giggles. Sméagol then proved that he had been paying close attention to the hobbits since he had met them. He turned, looked straight at Pippin and stuck his tongue out at him. Strider and Merry, who had just managed to contain themselves, burst out laughing again.

‘I think you are all going to be a great deal of trouble,’ Strider said with mock severity once he had stopped chuckling again, ‘and I am glad that I am only taking you to Rivendell. I do not like to think of what might happen otherwise.’

‘We be fine,’ Sméagol told Strider, still bouncing slightly on the spot. Pippin could feel a wide grin on his own face, watching Sméagol enjoy himself so much. ‘We is not getting hurt.’

Strider’s face went still for a moment, his eyes losing some of their mirth. Pippin looked at him curiously, stepping close enough to hear Strider murmur, ‘So I hope, Sméagol. I really do.’ When Strider caught Pippin looking, however, the Man merely sped up and snagged Sméagol’s cloak off the floor on his way past.

‘What was that all about?’ Pippin asked Merry curiously.

Merry shrugged. He didn’t seem to have understood Strider either.

***

By the time that they were two days’ journey from Rivendell Merry had far more admiration for travellers than he ever had before. How had Bilbo managed it so easily, he wondered. Merry felt as if his feet were burning, even with the hardened soles that came with being a hobbit, and he was certain that his trousers were looser than they had been. They had gathered plenty of supplies in Bree and Sméagol had proven to be as adept as Strider at finding food in the wild. Even so, they had had to limit themselves to fewer meals a day than they had at home. Strider had told them that they could not carry enough food to do otherwise and that the journey would take far longer than it should if they were constantly stopping.

Sméagol actually dealt with this far better than Merry and Pippin, proving his claim that he had travelled widely and that he knew the wild. He certainly had more energy than they did, often disappearing off ahead and then scampering back to mock them for how slowly they were going. Merry had no doubt that Strider and Sméagol could easily have outstripped the two of them had they wished.

‘I will be glad when we reach Rivendell,’ Pippin puffed when Sméagol ran off ahead once more, all but dancing around Strider’s feet on his way. ‘This isn’t natural for hobbits. All I want to do is sit down and have a good meal.’

‘Strider says we aren’t far now,’ Merry responded, though he was trying to cheer himself up as much as Pippin. ‘Just another day or two.’

‘Good,’ Pippin said, ‘because once we arrive I’m not moving for a week.’

Their half-hearted conversation was interrupted by a shriek from over the hill. A shriek that sounded like Sméagol and was coming from the direction he had been headed. Strider didn’t even pause before he began to run in that direction, drawing his sword as he moved. Despite his tiredness and lack of a weapon, Merry followed immediately, Pippin not far behind. That shriek had been frightened, and that worried Merry more than sore feet.

They crested the hill after Strider, almost sliding down the other side in their haste to reach their companions. Even as he slid Merry was taking in the scene.

Gathered about, some mounted and others holding the reins of their horses, were a group who could only be Elves. Most were dark-haired, from what Merry could see, though many wore helms that hid their faces. They were heavily armed, with bows across their backs, swords strapped to their sides and spears in hand. Unfortunately a number of those on the ground had their spears pointing at Sméagol.

‘Leave him alone!’ Merry heard Pippin cry as his cousin put on a final burst of speed, overtook Merry and threw himself between two elves so that he stood in front of Sméagol, shielding his front though Sméagol was still encircled. ‘Don’t hurt him.’

‘They are not hurting him, Master Pippin,’ Strider said calmly. ‘Be easy.’

‘They’re pointing weapons at him,’ Pippin argued. ‘You don’t do that unless you’re planning to hurt someone.’

‘Unless,’ a smooth voice interjected from next to Strider, ‘you come across someone on your patrol whom you have never met before and you aren’t entirely sure why they are where they are. Had we realised whose company he was in, we would have been less cautious. Stand down.’ This last the elf aimed at his own people, who immediately put up their spears and moved so that they were no longer surrounding Sméagol and Pippin.

‘Well if you knew he was with Strider, why didn’t you stop pointing those things at him earlier?’ Pippin asked in a disgruntled tone. He was still partially shielding Sméagol who, much to Merry’s confusion, did not appear angry but frightened, curled up almost into a ball.

‘Sméagol, it’s alright,’ Merry told him gently as he approached. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’

‘Merry said elves good,’ Sméagol whimpered, opening one eye to peer up. A wave of guilt washed over Merry at Sméagol’s frightened expression.

‘They are,’ Merry said, though he knew his voice lacked conviction. ‘You just took them surprise.’

‘As we took Master Sméagol by surprise,’ the elven leader put in then. He moved forward and crouched beside Sméagol, holding one hand out with his palm facing upward. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he reassured Sméagol. ‘We have had dealings with foul things this day and apparently the encounter left us more nervous than we realised. My apologies for frightening you.’

Sméagol remained still for some seconds after that, before eyeing the elf’s hand uncertainly. Pippin, who had mostly been appeased by the apology, reached out and took Sméagol’s hand. Then he moved it slowly until he could place it atop the hand proffered by the elf. ‘Like that,’ Pippin told Sméagol. Sméagol flinched slightly but calmed when it became clear that was all that was going to happen. After a brief moment, the elf moved his hand back and turned to Strider once more.

‘This is more company than I expected you to have when you returned to us, Estel,’ he said, his tone turning the statement into a question.

‘When last we checked,’ another elf added, ‘Rangers did not bring hobbits along as bodyguards when they went into the wild.’

‘The two of you still think you are funny, I see,’ was Strider’s rejoinder. ‘I had hoped another ten years would have cured you of that.’

‘The truth needs no cure,’ the second elf said blithely. ‘It is as it is. We are, however, being extremely rude. Master Sméagol you have introduced us to, after a fashion, but we are not known to your other companions.’

‘Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, Master Peregrin Took,’ Strider said immediately, taking his cue, ‘might I introduce Elladan and Elrohir, Lord Elrond’s sons?’

‘The less wise and less kind sons?’ Merry asked, remembering the tale Strider had told them some weeks ago.

‘Exactly,’ Strider agreed.

‘What is this?’ Elladan asked instantly. ‘Estel, have you been telling these fine people lies about us?’

‘Not at all,’ Strider answered with complete calm. ‘I have told them nothing but the truth.’

‘What are you calling him?’ Pippin queried with some confusion. ‘His name is Strider.’ Both of the brothers laughed.

‘I am afraid you will find that your Strider has as many names as most people do shirts, Master Peregrin,’ Elrohir informed him. ‘Estel is simply the name by which he is known in our father’s home, as Strider is his Ranger name.’

‘So what’s your real name?’ Pippin asked Strider, causing Elladan to laugh again and answer in Strider’s place.

‘Now that, Master Peregrin, would be telling,’ he uttered with an air of purposeful mystery.

‘Instead,’ Elrohir interjected, ‘Estel should tell us why he is come to see his family after so long spent ignoring us.’

At that point Strider said something in elvish which made a number of the elves around them laugh, though Strider himself looked perturbed and almost embarrassed.

‘Only too true,’ Elladan answered him in Westron. ‘Still, we would know why you are come.’

‘We intended to speak to your father regarding a problem Sméagol needs help with,’ Merry told him.

‘Ah,’ Elladan said regretfully, ‘then I am afraid you will be out of luck for some weeks yet. Father travelled to the Grey Havens partway through the summer and did not intend to return until the end of autumn. We do not expect him any sooner than that.’

‘No elves?’ Sméagol asked Merry in a disappointed tone, apparently recovered from his earlier fright.

‘Many elves, Master Sméagol,’ Elrohir replied, ‘but not, alas, the one you are looking for. You will have to stay with us until Father returns if you need to speak with him.’

‘It’s no great loss,’ Pippin told Sméagol reassuringly. ‘We knew we weren’t likely to make it back to the Shire until spring.’

If they decided to send Sméagol to Erebor to find Bilbo and his precious then they weren’t likely to return to the Shire with Sméagol at all, Merry thought. Pippin knew that. Sméagol surely did as well. Sméagol said nothing more, however, seemingly content to leave the matter as it stood.

‘Come, we had best see you to Imladris,’ Elladan announced. ‘It would not do for you to have the same confusion with another patrol.’ Without so much as a by-your-leave Elladan reached down, caught Pippin up and set him onto the saddle of his horse. Elrohir did the same for Merry before Merry had time to protest. The elf who was to carry Sméagol at least had the good sense to warn him before seizing him and then Strider was the only one un-mounted.

‘How terrible!’ Elrohir exclaimed with false astonishment. ‘Estel does not have a horse. We will have to meet you at Rivendell, little brother.’

‘The two of you are nothing but children,’ one of the other elves commented with some irritation, moving his horse forward so that he was near to Strider. ‘Estel, come, Tama will carry us both.’

Then Strider, too, was mounted and they were on their way.

***

This was proving to be a truly surprising month, Aragorn mused as they drew near to Imladris. When he had received the message that the Master of Brandy Hall wished to speak with him, he had expected to be told of wolves running off with sheep or some other matter which would require Aragorn to safeguard the Shire. He certainly had not expected to be faced with Sméagol and all of the questions and challenges that came with him.

Even now, nearly a month later, Aragorn felt no close to understanding what Sméagol really was. Once a hobbit, most likely, as the hobbits themselves seemed to think. There was evidence enough to make that probable. Yet that was only what he had once been. and it brought Aragorn no closer to deciding what Sméagol was now. He simply could not fathom what could have warped and twisted a hobbit so far as to change their entire appearance as well as the way their mind worked. Nor could he truly understand what had caused the two different personalities Sméagol appeared to possess.

Aragorn fervently hoped that his foster-father would have some answers for him. For if Elrond could not understand this then he did not know who could.

Dismounting as they entered the courtyard, Aragorn found his eyes scanning the area instinctively. He was not entirely surprised to hear his brothers’ laughter once more.

‘She will appear soon enough, Estel,’ Elladan chuckled. ‘You will not have to wait long.’

Aragorn considered protesting their assumptions, before deciding it would be a wasted effort. There were few secrets in Imladris and how Aragorn felt about Arwen was certainly not one of them. If those feelings had made him a little more eager to seek Lord Elrond’s advice, he was not going to feel guilty about it. This was still the best place he could think to bring Sméagol.

If there were to be some weeks before Elrond would arrive – weeks in which he would not have to suffer the unhappy looks of a father who did not like his daughter’s choice of suitor – well, that was no fault of Aragorn’s. He would not feel guilty about that, either.

***

Aragorn had spent most of his days since their arrival in the library, enjoying the chance to read quietly. While he had enjoyed the company of his young (and not so young) charges, the time to sit peacefully was a blessing. Reading was not something he was able to do much of these days. The life of a Ranger was a busy one and books were not easy to carry without damaging them. There was also something lacking when he had time like this out in the wild. Not quiet, particularly. More a sense of peace that permeated Imladris, a feeling of safety he could not rely upon when he was abroad.

That he was avoiding Arwen was something that Aragorn would not have admitted to anyone. After so many years apart it made no sense to be all but hiding from the one he had missed most while he had been gone. Those years were part of a problem that Aragorn feared to examine too closely, however.

For while they had seemed long to him, a veritable age in fact, they might not have to Arwen. What were ten years to one who had lived thousands? She would not have spent hours remembering every moment of the months they had spent together. They would be nothing but the blink of an eye to her. Perhaps it was cowardice to avoid Arwen in the hopes of putting off the moment when it became clear that she had not missed him as he had her. If it was, Aragorn would do it anyway. He had not the courage to face that truth.

Of course, the longer he hid without being found, the worse the situation became. For now he had the worry that Arwen was trying to be gentle in her rejection by allowing distance between them, rather than having to tell Aragorn that she had changed her mind.

All of these thoughts were interrupted by the door flying open. Then the subject of Aragorn’s fears came hurrying into the room, eyes bright and silvery laughter filing the room.

‘There you are,’ Arwen announced happily. ‘Estel, come! Look!’ Arwen held out her hand and Aragorn moved to take it without even realising he had risen. Arwen tugged gently and guided him to a window which looked out into the courtyard. Aragorn stood behind her, looking over her shoulder and trying not to make it obvious that he was breathing in Arwen’s nearness and her scent.

‘Look,’ his beloved ordered again and Aragorn pulled his mind back to the view out of the window. It did not take much effort to decide what Arwen had wanted him to see.

Three figures in the courtyard were drawing attention from any number of elves, most of whom were laughing or, at the very least, smiling. It was hard to do anything else when faced with the sheer joy of the scene.

Aragorn smiled himself when Pippin let out a loud cry as Sméagol flung a handful of water directly into his face. They were in one of the fountains that could be found throughout Rivendell, splashing each other and generally causing a mess that would have had Erestor wringing his hands in distress. A good thing that Erestor had travelled out with Elrond.

‘He’s playing,’ Arwen said fondly, voice slightly awed, as they continued to watch. Aragorn did not have to glance down at her to know that she was observing Sméagol. Arwen’s compassion and her ability to see the good in everyone and everything were two of the things Aragorn had fallen in love with. She had spent a great deal of time with Sméagol and the hobbits since their arrival, as far as Aragorn could tell, and clearly she was well on her way to caring deeply for them.

‘He is not always so gentle or so happy,’ Aragorn felt obliged to say. Bad enough that he, Merry and Pippin had almost completely failed to guard themselves properly. He could at least try to spare Arwen heartbreak.

‘None of us are,’ Arwen answered and, though she sounded sad, Aragorn did not think the sadness was because of Sméagol. A moment later he was proved correct.

‘Estel, if you wish to be released from any unspoken promises between us, you need only ask.’

‘Released?’ Aragorn questioned disbelievingly. He had no wish to be released from anything. He would marry Arwen now if Elrond were not so likely to murder him when he returned.

‘You have not voluntarily come nigh me since you arrived, Estel,’ Arwen pointed out, voice still sad. ‘This is the first time we have held anything but the briefest conversation. So I say again, if you consider yourself bound and would prefer not to be, speak now.’

‘I have no wish to be released from anything,’ Aragorn found himself repeating, aloud this time. ‘I feared you might. Things might have changed while I was away.’

‘They are less likely to have changed for me than for you,’ Arwen said, resolved now though there was a tear threatening to fall from one eye. ‘I have remained much the same for many a long year. You are a Captain of your people now, rather than the young man grown to manhood in my father’s household. There might well be a woman of your own people you wish to wed.’

‘There is not,’ Aragorn insisted, looking his beloved directly in the eye. ‘I want none but you, nor ever have.’ Arwen studied him intently for nearly a minute and Aragorn wondered if she was trying to read his soul in his eyes. Then her face lightened.

‘Then might I suggest a conversation that is not about the weather as a good beginning, my lord?’ she teased gently. ‘Further conversations would also be advisable. It is very hard to imagine someone in love with you when they apparently prefer not to speak with you, especially when you have spent ten years missing their company.’

She was rewarded with a blush, not something Aragorn had experienced since the last time they had been together. That was, perhaps, to be one of the effects of being in love with one much older than he. Arwen seemed to know exactly what to say to cause him great embarrassment. Her brothers were much the same.

He would take any embarrassment she cared to cause, however, as long as he could have her love along with it.

***

‘Merry!’ Pippin called worriedly, desperately hoping that Merry was near enough to hear him. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted anyone else to be close enough to hear. Their help would probably be useful, but the situation was precarious enough as it was. Why had he followed Sméagol? This was bound to end in disaster.

‘Merry!’ he shouted again, slightly frantic now. If Merry didn’t come Pippin didn’t know what he would do. Merry could not still be in the library, surely. He’d been making a valiant effort to chain himself to the bookcases in there while Pippin and Sméagol explored Rivendell, but no one could read forever. Could they?

‘Pip, where are you?’ Pippin heard Merry shout. He sagged slightly with relief, before remembering why that was a truly terrible idea right now and bracing himself again.

‘Here,’ he yelled instead, a hint of panic still in his voice. ‘Merry, I’m here.’

‘Valar above,’ a voice exclaimed, far closer than Pippin had expected. ‘However did he get up there?’

‘We tells Pippin we can do it,’ Sméagol explained. He sounded very annoyed but he was not hissing as he did when truly angry. ‘We tells him he is not going on roof. Pippin not listen.’

‘Clearly he did not,’ one of the twins answered. Pippin could tell, now he concentrated, that it was Elladan or Elrohir speaking, but he still could not tell them apart. ‘Well, it is a good thing you came to get us, Sméagol, no matter what he told you. I do not think Merry would find this any easier than Pippin has.’

That statement was followed by a scraping noise, wood on stone if Pippin guessed correctly. It took him several seconds to identify it as the sound of one of the benches that were scattered around Rivendell being dragged across the floor. Shortly afterwards one of the twins popped their head above the roof, eyeing Pippin with a mixture of concern and amusement.

‘You should listen to Sméagol next time, Pippin,’ the twin scolded him. ‘Hobbits do not seem to be made for roofs.’

‘Nobody in the Shire has anything as stupid as a roof,’ Pippin snapped, not at all in the mood to be mocked. ‘We build our homes properly.’

‘Proper or not, this particular roof seems to have got the better of you,’ the twin replied, raising one eyebrow. ‘Dare I ask why you and Sméagol wished to be on the roof in the first place?’

‘Pippin not _need_ to be on roof,’ Sméagol insisted again, still irritated. ‘Sméagol can get necklace.’

‘Necklace!’ Merry shouted loudly. ‘What were the two of you doing with a necklace?’

Silence was his only reply. Pippin swallowed. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to get down now. This roof was ridiculously high up, of course, and he was only staying in place because he was gripping a decorative carving on the highest point. On the bright side, though, Merry was unlikely to storm the roof to get at him. It suddenly felt much safer up here.

If the mischievous glint in the twin’s eye was any indication, he knew it as well. Placing both hands on the edge Elladan (or Elrohir, possibly) vaulted onto the roof as if he was stepping over a small garden fence. Taking three quick steps to where Pippin lay, still desperately clutching at the carving, Elrohir (or Elladan) scooped him up, ran to the edge and jumped.

Pippin’s scream echoed around the valley for some time.

***

The end of autumn came more quickly than any of Aragorn’s party had expected. It looked to be a bad winter and rain and sleet hampered Imladris’ patrols earlier than they had anticipated. No one was particularly surprised when Elrond rode in a little sooner than planned, on a rainy evening which looked set to turn into a thunderstorm soon enough. Merry, Pippin and Sméagol had joined Aragorn and Elrond’s children to greet him in the courtyard, after word had come that Imladris’ lord was returning. When the groups of elves, with Elrond at the head and Glorfindel not far behind, trotted in and came to a halt, Elrond’s eyes passed swiftly over all those gathered.

When those eyes passed over him, Aragorn was forcibly reminded that Elrond had not exactly been happy with him the last time he had visited. Aragorn felt himself standing taller, bracing himself for Elrond’s displeasure.

‘I am beginning to sense a pattern,’ Elrond proclaimed, relieving Aragorn by focusing instead on his twin sons. ‘I take my eyes off the pair of you for more than a few days and suddenly we have unexpected visitors.’

‘That is why you keep sending us out on patrol,’ Elladan told him lightly, not at all fazed by the unusual greeting. ‘If you did not, who would help weary travellers to find the Last Homely House when they need it?’

‘We didn’t mean to intrude,’ Aragorn heard Merry say quietly.

‘He is teasing them, Merry,’ Aragorn hurried to assure him. ‘There is little Lord Elrond likes better than visitors, but the last time these two arrived with travellers in tow they had discovered thirteen dwarves and a hobbit.’

‘They had indeed,’ Elrond answered, ‘and now they seem to have brought me two more adventurous hobbits and my foster-son in my absence, so I am well pleased with the pair of them. I, as you will have gathered, am Lord Elrond. You are all welcome in Imladris. Hopefully my children have made you feel so while I have been gone.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Merry replied, taking the lead as Aragorn had noticed he almost always did. ‘We have been very happy here.’

That was when Sméagol suddenly spoke up.

‘Elf here now. Sméagol find precious.’

‘Sméagol!’ Pippin hissed. ‘He’s only just got home. Let him at least sit down and have dinner.’

Sméagol looked most put out, as did Pippin to Aragorn’s eyes. He wondered if Pippin had hoped that Sméagol would forget what they had come here for if they stayed long enough. If so he must be disappointed.

Luckily, Elrond took Sméagol’s comment in his stride, only offering his customary reserved smile.

‘I would appreciate being dry when we have our discussion. I will see you all at dinner, I hope, and then afterwards we can discuss what brings you here.’

The command was implicit enough that all of the elves began to move to clear the courtyard, with the twins gathering Aragorn’s charges up and ushering them towards the house. As Aragorn moved to follow, Elrond caught his eye.

‘You and I have much to discuss, ion-nin,’ Elrond told him quietly. ‘Not the least of which is your third companion. He is no normal hobbit.’

‘No,’ Aragorn agreed. ‘That is why we have come. There is much about Sméagol that is unexplained and I had hoped that you could help.’

‘Then we will discuss it all after dinner,’ Elrond announced before he turned to enter the house. Aragorn wondered if the sentence had sounded as ominous in Elrond’s mind as it had in his.

***

Dinner was a pleasant affair, particularly because the elves had grown used to hobbit appetites and ensured that there was plenty of food at hand. Sméagol was still unhappy about being told to wait before speaking to Elrond, but Pippin told him firmly that he could not always have exactly what he wanted when he wanted it, and no more was heard on the subject.

Afterwards Lord Elrond invited Merry, Pippin, Sméagol, Strider and his children into his study and Merry was happily ensconced in a comfortable chair, gazing in wonder at all the books Elrond had acquired over the years.

‘There are far more in the library,’ Elrond said when he noticed the direction of Merry’s gaze. ‘I have no doubt you have read many of them already. If you wish to choose some to read from my collection, however, then feel free to come back whenever you wish. If the door is locked then someone will be able to find me for you.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Merry replied with sincere gratitude. The thought of so many books, on top of those he had already seen, was truly wonderful and Merry briefly considered staying here forever and seeing how long it would take to read every one.

‘You aren’t staying here forever,’ Pippin decreed just as Merry was thinking of it. ‘Aunt Esme and Uncle Saradoc are expecting us home at some point.’ Merry abandoned maturity for an instant and pulled a face at Pippin that had Sméagol giggling.

‘I will confess myself very curious about your visit, Master Hobbits,’ Elrond began when Sméagol’s laughter died down. ‘Very few hobbits have ever come to Imladris. Might I ask what brings you here?’

‘We is come to find precious,’ Sméagol proclaimed before Merry could answer. ‘Hobbits is helping Sméagol find hobbit who tooks it so we can gets it back.’

‘We?’ Elrond queried with some surprise, glancing around involuntarily. ‘Have you another companion?’ Sméagol simply looked at him with a perplexed expression.

‘Oh,’ Pippin stated suddenly, ‘Sméagol just means himself. He always says we instead of I.’ Elrond’s face didn’t clear entirely but he stopped searching for possibly invisible visitors.

‘Ah,’ he uttered vaguely, ‘I see. So,’ Elrond then continued more certainly, ‘you have come searching for something that Master Sméagol believes was taken by a hobbit. I would have thought you would be best off in the Shire for that.’

Merry was fairly sure that Lord Elrond was wise enough to know which hobbit they were searching for if they had come to Rivendell hoping to find him. That meant he was likely being deliberately obtuse. Apparently something here had made Elrond cautious as well.

‘Hobbit was in mountains,’ Sméagol decided to clarify. ‘No mountains in Shire.’

‘No, that there aren’t,’ Elrond concurred. ‘What was it that was taken from you, Master Sméagol?’

‘Precious,’ Sméagol told him, although there was a certain amount of weariness in the tone. This was never a subject that went easily for Sméagol.

‘Precious?’ Elrond queried. ‘I will need to know what sort of item was precious to you before I can try to help.’

‘Precious is precious,’ Sméagol said in an exasperated tone. ‘Is… like friend. Hobbit said it was like friend.’

‘Sméagol is the precious a person?’ Pippin asked in astonishment. Merry shared the feeling. Nothing that Sméagol had said before had made them think he might be searching for a person. Nor had he ever mentioned a conversation with Bilbo before. In fact, Sméagol mostly gave the impression that he had not spoken to anyone for a very long time.

‘No, no,’ Sméagol denied. ‘Not person. Talks to us, stays with us, but then precious got lost and hobbit found it and tooks it.’

‘But if it isn’t a person how could it talk?’ Pippin queried, almost as frustrated as Sméagol.

‘Not everything in the world that can talk is a person, Master Peregrin,’ Elrond told him gently. ‘Smaug, who caused the dwarves of Erebor so much trouble, could talk. Many of the evil things in the world can talk in some way, like the spiders which once plagued King Thranduil’s realm in the East. There are also certain magical items which have voices of their own. I would like to know where you found your precious, Sméagol,’ he continued, turning his attention away from Pippin once more. ‘These magical items are not normally stumbled across easily.’

Sméagol was silent for a very long time. Merry thought that Lord Elrond might prod him, as Merry and his family had when they first took Sméagol in. Elrond seemed content to wait, however, and was eventually rewarded with an answer.

‘Precious was in water,’ Sméagol informed Elrond, face scrunched up as if he was thinking hard. ‘Sméagol good with water, we finds it and we keeps it. It talks to us, helps us, even when nasty people makes us leave.’

‘Is it small, Sméagol?’ Strider asked then, sensing that Elrond was making more progress than he had before. ‘Is your precious small enough to hold?’

‘Yes,’ Sméagol told him, smiling as if he was proud that someone had finally asked a sensible question. ‘Precious is small. We keeps close and safe. Until it gets lost and hobbit takes it.’ Sméagol’s face darkened abruptly, his tone dropping. For the first time Merry heard him make the strangest noise, almost like a cat trying to rid itself of a hairball. All of the hairs on Merry’s arms and neck stood on end and he realised that he was suddenly terrified. Something was horribly wrong.

Then, abruptly, Elrond reached out and touched Sméagol and the feeling passed. Sméagol, Merry realised, was asleep.

‘How?’ Merry asked Elrond slightly incoherently.

‘I am a healer, Master Meriadoc,’ Elrond informed him quietly, ‘and sleep is one of a healer’s greatest helpers. He will sleep for some time now, which I think is best. We have much to talk about.’

‘Is…’ Pippin began in a small voice. He paused, swallowed and tried again. ‘Is Sméagol evil?’ Elrond sighed heavily.

‘I do not know, Master Peregrin,’ he answered. ‘Evil is not always as easily identified as we would like. I will say that Sméagol’s mind feels muddy and confused in a way I have rarely come across. His thoughts grow harsh and unpleasant when he dwells on this precious. I do not think it is good for him, whatever it is, nor do I imagine it is doing Bilbo a great deal of good if he has it.’

‘What do you think it is?’ Strider asked Elrond, also keeping his voice quiet. The whole room felt hushed to Merry, as if the earth was taking a deep breath.

‘I think it is something forged by evil,’ Elrond told him solemnly. ‘Something meant to entrap a mind and turn it to evil’s purpose. I could be wrong, of course. There are any number of magical artefacts in this world. I have rarely come across one which could change someone so completely as Sméagol must have been changed, however.’

‘Are there many evil magical things lying around?’ Merry questioned, fear taking him again. Evil had seemed so far away in the Shire. Now it was not so far away after all.

‘More than we would prefer,’ Elladan replied in Elrond’s place. His voice and face were grim, the first time that Merry had ever seen or heard him so. ‘Father, we need to warn Bilbo about whatever it is he has.’

‘That will not be easy at this time of year,’ Arwen spoke. She had said little up until now, though she had engaged in a great many conversations with Merry and his companions during their stay. Merry got the impression that Arwen preferred to listen to all before she offered any opinion. The more he got to know her, the more he tried to do the same. He’d found he learned far more when he was not always trying to decide when he could fit his next comment in.

‘No,’ Elrohir agreed, ‘it will not. We will try it though, with your permission, Father. Bilbo cannot be left in ignorance of this. Not if it is as we fear.’

‘Leave in the morning,’ Elrond commanded them. ‘If you can make it to Erebor then you can warn them to treat whatever it is with caution, winter there and try to convince Bilbo to come back with you in the spring. In the meantime I will try what healing I can upon Sméagol, though I am afraid it will not be as effective as we would like.’

‘If you are to leave so soon, and with winter on the way, we will have to hurry to have you ready,’ Arwen told her brothers. ‘Come, we need to find Erestor.’ Elladan and Elrohir complied without argument and soon Merry and his companions were left alone with Elrond once more.

‘Do you think they can make it?’ Pippin asked Strider, face still wrinkled with concern.

‘I do not know, Pippin,’ Strider answered, not sounding hopeful. ‘Winter comes in hard and the Misty Mountains are treacherous even without the snows falling.’

‘They will make every effort,’ Elrond reassured Pippin. ‘If they cannot get through, then we at least have the comfort of knowing that Bilbo has held this item for some years and has come to no great harm in that time. I would prefer he was warned as soon as possible, so that he could limit how long he spent near Sméagol’s precious, but a few more months will hopefully be no great problem.’

***

Elladan and Elrohir left early the next morning, provisioned as well as Elrond’s household could manage and riding horses that made the ponies found in the Shire look like donkeys. Many of those in Imladris turned out to see them off, murmuring prayers for good luck to speed them on their way.

In the end, however, it was all for nothing. Not two weeks later the twins returned unsuccessful. The snow had fallen hard in the Mountains and the pass was inaccessible. Bilbo’s warning would have to wait until the thaw.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sméagol is so awkward to write, I'm never sure if his dialogue comes off very well. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know.


	6. Come To Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Lothlórien light is to be shed on many topics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ridiculously late with this chapter and all I can do is keep apologising for the delays. Life is crazy and, unfortunately, fun things like fanfic get dropped to the bottom of the pile. The updates will keep coming but they'll probably be slow.
> 
> If you do get bored, want something to read and haven't read ISeeFire's Homeward Bound or Of Dwobbits, Dwarves and Dragons, I highly recommend them :D What could be better than dwobbits and baby dragons after all?

Chapter Five: Come To Light

2964 

As Thorin followed Galadriel away from the feast and towards a private chamber he castigated himself over and over again. How could he have been so stupid? Had his experiences, the perils he had faced, taught him _nothing_? Mahal could not have been any clearer about the dangers of that ring and there it had been, sitting for over twenty years in the hands of one of his dearest friends, spreading its poison until Bilbo was carrying it with him even when there was no need. He was such a fool! Would he never learn?

‘Thorin, what is _wrong_?’ Bilbo asked anxiously. When Thorin looked over to answer he could see that Bilbo’s eyes were fixed upon Thorin’s hands, which were twisting his own ring back and forth, back and forth. They had known each other long enough for Bilbo to recognise that for what it was.

‘That ring,’ Thorin answered with unintentional harshness. ‘That ring is the problem and ever has been.’

‘I do not understand why you are all so het up about the ring,’ Bilbo told him, though his exasperation could not hide the high note of tension in his voice. ‘It is doing no harm to anyone. Yes, I disappeared for a moment, but nothing terrible has happened.’

‘That, Master Baggins,’ Galadriel interjected, ‘remains to be seen. I have encountered many magical artefacts in my time, some more troubling than others. Never before has one been able to escape my notice so completely. That ring is cunning. It knows how to hide when it does not wish to be seen. Now, however, it has revealed itself as rather more than it seems.’

‘How to hide?’ Bilbo questioned sharply. ‘Revealed itself? My lady, are you feeling quite well? It is a ring, not a person. It cannot think.’

‘Can it not?’ Galadriel asked him, voice even sharper and with an edge of steel that made Bilbo step back with alarm. ‘Tell me, Master Baggins, why did you feel the need to bring a ring that confers invisibility upon its wearer on a visit to my realm?’

‘I… well… I say, I,’ Bilbo stuttered, taken off guard by the query.

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin asked sadly, awash with sympathy for his old friend even in the face of his unexpected rudeness, ‘did you know you had it with you?’

For a few moments Bilbo only stared at him, eyes wide and shocked as the atmosphere around Thorin and Galadriel began to register with him fully. Then fear washed over his face and their hobbit began to shake slightly. Even as he did, he was shaking his head, eyes still wide and now locked on Thorin.

‘No,’ Bilbo whispered, taking a panicked breath. ‘No, Thorin, not until tonight at the feast. I thought it was at home. I thought I’d left it in my room.’ Glancing down at the object clutched in his hand, Bilbo took another shaky breath and then looked back at Thorin. ‘What is happening, Thorin? What _is_ this thing?’

‘I do not know,’ Thorin replied, stepping forward to wrap an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and steady him. ‘I do no, Bilbo, but I suspect Lady Galadriel does. Let us speak with her and see what she can tell us, yes?’ 

Bilbo nodded unsteadily and let Thorin bear some of his weight. If Thorin was practically carrying him by the time they made it to the chamber Galadriel had in mind, he would never mention it to anyone. Bilbo would be more than embarrassed once this was through. Instead Thorin helped Bilbo into a seat and settled him before indicating a table in between the circle of chairs.

‘Perhaps you should put the ring there, Bilbo,’ he suggested with false calm. He very much wanted it out of Bilbo’s hands right now. That desire only increased when Bilbo’s face twisted into a snarl at Thorin’s suggestion, grasping the ring even more tightly in his fist. It was frightening, though Thorin would never have admitted it. Bilbo could do no real damage to him - he was a competent fighter but still not as skilled as one who had fought since childhood - yet it seemed he would be prepared to try. Their hobbit came out of his chair and sank down into a crouch, curling about the ring and ready to leap at Thorin if he tried to take it by force. It reminded Thorin, in that moment, of looking at Glóin when he had been in the thrall of the gold-sickness.

Thorin did not want to hurt Bilbo. Not if he could help it. That left him rather short of options.

‘Bilbo Baggins,’ Thorin snapped, attempting to sound like Gandalf at his most irritated, ‘stop that this instant! You have no enemies here except that thing you are holding in your hand.’

Bilbo did not move from his position, did not release his grip on the ring at all, but the snarl slipped off his face for a moment and he did not move.

That was all the time Galadriel needed. She caught hold of Bilbo, hands on either side of his head, face taut with effort. For long moments nothing happened. Then Bilbo went limp and the ring dropped from his unclenched fist. It hit the floor with a clang loud enough to reverberate around the room. It did not bounce or shift at all. Simply dropped and went still. Had Thorin not been so worried about Bilbo that would likely have intrigued him more.

Then Galadriel released Bilbo, stepping back to give him some room. Again, Bilbo’s eyes went to Thorin and they were terrified once more.

‘It will be well, Bilbo,’ Thorin tried to reassure him, though his voice was shaky even to his own ears. ‘We will work it out as we always do.’

Bilbo nodded, clearly trying to calm himself and only having a little success. His eyes turned to the ring on the floor and this time the anger appeared to be aimed at it, rather than at Thorin and Galadriel. Bilbo stared briefly, then raised his eyes and looked at Thorin and Galadriel in turn.

‘On the table, you said?’ Bilbo asked Thorin, who nodded. ‘Yes, I think that would be best.’ With that, Bilbo reached down and picked the ring up once more. Thorin felt his throat close up and his heart begin to hammer in his ears. Please, he prayed fervently, please do not let me lose someone else to evil like this.

He need not have worried. Bilbo seized the ring, face resolute, took two steps forward, placed it firmly on the table and then stepped back.

When he sat back in his seat he gave a little sigh. To Thorin’s ears it sounded like relief.

‘I was harsh with you before, Bilbo,’ Galadriel began quietly. ‘I am sorry for it. It is long since I was surprised by evil within my realm and I reacted poorly.’

‘It is fine,’ Bilbo reassured her, now appearing thoughtful. ‘I was not exactly well-mannered myself. I am not, very often, when it comes to the ring.’

Thorin could feel his brow crease with confusion and concern. What did Bilbo mean by that? Thorin did not think he’d even heard Bilbo speak of the ring since he’d returned to Erebor some years ago. Bilbo must have caught the confused look, for he soon explained.

‘The others have asked me about the ring a time or two,’ Bilbo informed Thorin with some shame. ‘You know Nori, never one to let curiosity go unanswered. He peppered me with questions after Frodo and I got home and I found I did not want to answer any of them. I told him if he did not stop pestering me then I’d take his loom to pieces and ruin that tapestry he was making for Ori. He looked… hurt, more than anything. Shocked. I apologised, of course, but I did not see him for some time afterwards. Frodo has also tried to ask me about it more than once. I have never been so cruel with him, but he stopped asking after I told him it was not his to touch and he’d miss a month of training with Dwalin if I ever saw him near it. I think that might have been when I started carrying it with me all the time. I wanted to know where it was. Then, today, when Lady Galadriel wanted to speak with us…’ here, Bilbo trailed off and stared determinedly at his lap.

‘Today, Bilbo wished to know why _his_ ring was any concern of mine and what business I had with it,’ Galadriel continued for him. When Bilbo flushed with shame and began to speak she held her hand up to stop him. ‘Within my home my power is greatest. At times it is difficult not to hear thoughts with such strength behind them. Thorin is still remarkably quiet within his mind, but I am afraid you are not, Bilbo.’

‘It is the ring?’ Bilbo asked her instead of apologising. ‘Has it been making me so possessive?’

‘I would say so,’ Galadriel confirmed, ‘especially after what just happened here. There is a malice in that ring that is ever-present once you know to look for it. I can feel it even now. It calls to those it thinks can help it, offering all and encouraging emotions we try to avoid. Jealousy, possessiveness, anger, greed. It is a fell thing you have carried all these years, Bilbo. Little wonder it had begun to change you. The wonder is that you seem to have been so little affected. If it is what I think it is, you stand very much alone in resisting so well.’

‘What is it?’ Thorin enquired, wishing to hear it said aloud and with no mistake made.

‘I had thought you knew,’ Galadriel remarked with surprise colouring her voice. ‘You certainly reacted strongly enough out there.’

‘Had I known I would probably have remembered to do something about it before now,’ Thorin responded tiredly. ‘Apparently vague suspicions are easier to forget.’

‘Vague suspicions?’ an outraged voice practically exploded from behind Galadriel, shocking all three. Thorin noted, impressed, that he and Bilbo were not the only ones who reached automatically for weapons at the interruption. ‘ _Vague suspicions_?’ Mahal said again, if possible even more outraged than he had been before. Outwardly he looked much like a dwarf who had just passed their majority, young and strong and dark-haired. The fact that his eyes were currently blazing with the light of the sun he had helped to create ruined the image slightly, however. ‘I warn you, specifically _warn_ you about that ring, tell you it must come to light, and you call that a vague suspicion? How much clearer did you want me to be?’

Shaking off the surprise more quickly than his companions, Thorin realised that Mahal’s appearance was almost to be expected. His creator was not exactly known for letting major events pass him by.

‘You brought me back,’ Thorin told him resolutely, despite his own anger at himself, ‘because you had a dragon you needed killing and a people that required saving, and could not do it yourself. The dragon is dead. Our people flourish. Yes, in amongst all of the chaos I forgot the comment about the ring. It was an unfortunate oversight, I admit, but I have been rather busy for the last twenty years.’

‘Busy,’ Mahal scoffed irritably. ‘He thinks _he_ has been busy. Try guarding an entire world, Thorin Oakenshield, then you may tell me that you have been busy.’

‘He has been guarding an entire world,’ Bilbo interrupted indignantly. Bilbo never was one to let a slight to a friend go uncontested, Thorin reflected. The thought brought him a little comfort amongst his guilt. No matter what Thorin said to his creator, he knew that he had failed here. It was a bleak feeling. ‘He has rebuilt a kingdom, cleared another of evil, offered protection to those around Erebor whenever he could, kept a close eye on Ered Luin and those who remained there, and continued to strengthen alliances between Erebor, Lothlórien and Rivendell. That was no small task, as you should know if you are who I think you are.’ 

By the end of this speech Bilbo stood in the fighter’s stance that the dwarves had drilled into him over the years, hand where his sword would have been if they had come armed to the feast. Thorin felt a wave of affection wash over him. Their brave hobbit, who thought himself no such thing. How many others would defy a deity, even for a friend?

‘Bilbo, might I introduce Mahal, the creator of my people?’ Thorin said wryly, diverted from darker emotions by the absurdity of the moment. ‘I imagine he already knows you rather well.’

‘Of course I do,’ Mahal stated, eyeing Bilbo with amusement. ‘He is my hobbit, after all. I only have two to keep track of, it is not particularly difficult.’

‘Suddenly much becomes clear that was previously shadowed,’ Galadriel murmured then, though when Thorin glanced at her he had a feeling she was talking to herself. ‘Something had changed the course of the world from one day to the next and I could never quite fathom what it was.’

‘Yes, well, Thorin did not do particularly well the first time he completed his quest,’ Mahal commented, still irritated and gruff despite his amusement. ‘I will admit that he improved on the second try, however.’

‘Generous of you,’ Thorin muttered under his breath, ignoring the stern look Mahal gave him.

‘Second try,’ Bilbo said wonderingly. ‘Lady Galadriel is right. Some things are a _lot_ clearer now.’

Thorin looked at Bilbo in shock, certain he was practically gaping. ‘Bilbo?’ he heard himself ask.

‘One day Balin was suspicious, the next he was not,’ Bilbo responded. ‘A few weeks later Dwalin’s grumbling about changed friends and secretive brothers stopped rather abruptly. The whole Company knew something strange was going on, Thorin, but as long as those two were satisfied it did not seem that important. If you had suddenly turned into a raving lunatic no doubt we would have pushed, but things seemed to be going rather well, on the whole, so there was no reason to worry.’ 

Thorin just shook his head slowly. So much for secrecy and fooling his Company. This was not at all what he had expected to deal with when he woke up that morning. A simple diplomatic visit, Balin had said when he left Erebor. A holiday, almost, from the trials of being king. 

Which only went to prove that not even Balin could be right all of the time.

*** 

No matter how old one got, Galadriel mused, life never became dull. The smallest events provided surprises. The most inconspicuous people proved to be really very interesting. Were it not for the evil involved, she would have been well-pleased with how the night had progressed. Old questions might not occupy your thoughts constantly but it was pleasant to have them resolved nonetheless.

It was also very entertaining to see Thorin interact with Aulë. It was long, so very long, since Galadriel had come face to face with any of the Valar. Long enough ago that she had forgotten how much they could seem like their people. Yet here was Aulë, as impetuous as any dwarf, scolding a dwarven king like a child caught up past his bedtime. It was a truly amusing sight. 

Not so amusing, however, that Galadriel had missed the possibilities before them.

‘My lord,’ she said, taking care to be respectful, reminding herself of what pride had cost her and her people in years gone by, ‘if you can change the course of the world, could you not…?’ 

She did not get the chance to finish. Aulë was already shaking his head regretfully.

‘No, child, I cannot,’ he responded, tone firm as any parent. ‘I have done all the interfering I will be allowed. Once, you stood back and waited for my brothers and sisters and I to resolve the problems of your world. In doing so we tore it asunder. We will not do so again. This task is to be yours, not ours.’

And that would always be her shame, Galadriel knew, until the world ended and she passed beyond the stars. The shame of one who had been so determined to rule and yet too scared to fight evil to protect her world. It was not a mistake she would make again.

‘Then I will see it destroyed and its maker cast down,’ Galadriel promised Aulë solemnly. ‘He will hold no more power in this world.’

Aulë reached out his hand, as Galadriel had so often reached out herself, in blessing and benediction.

‘You will do well, I am sure,’ he said with certainty as he touched his hand to her brow, ‘and my Father will be well-pleased with you. With all of you,’ he continued, doing the same to Bilbo and to Thorin in their turn. ‘As I have been pleased with the work you have done,’ Galadriel heard Aulë tell Thorin quietly, ‘even when impatience leads me to say otherwise.’

Thorin bowed deeply, respectfully, but no fear showed upon his face. Instead he was smiling, teasing by the look on his face, though Galadriel could not hear what he said. No wonder he had always seemed amazingly composed in the face of the Eldar. Thorin Oakenshield had known far greater power than hers in his time.

She had no more time to ponder. Within seconds of the exchange between Thorin and Aulë, the Valar was gone.

***

‘Aulë, interfere once more and you will spend the next thousand years watching over the crustaceans on the sea floor. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Good. Begone!’

‘Yes, Father.’

*** 

‘There’s never a dull moment when you're around, is there?’ Bilbo asked Thorin dryly as they took their seats once again. Thorin was grateful to Mahal for that more than anything. His visit had briefly distracted Bilbo from the possibility that he had been housing evil all these years. Now Bilbo looked calmer, not as frightened as he had been.

‘No,’ Thorin agreed with a sigh, ‘not often.’

‘My lady, I believe you were about to tell us what exactly we are dealing with,’ Bilbo reminded Galadriel gently. Apparently Bilbo had decided it was time to return to the practicalities of the situation.

‘So I was,’ Galadriel replied, gazing into the fire that sat in the corner of the room. ‘Thousands of years ago, one of the Maia, Annatar, came to Celebrimbor and the other smiths of Eregion and offered to share with them secrets of smithing which he said he had learned from Aulë himself. Though Celebrimbor did not trust him, others were eager to learn what he taught. Many rings were made in those days, rings which, unbeknownst to the smiths, were bound to an evil purpose. For they were all deceived in the end, except for Celebrimbor. While he had crafted three Rings of Power untouched by Annatar’s hands, all of the others were subject to the will of the One Ring, crafted by Annatar in secret. He was one of the Maia in truth, but one long turned to evil.’

‘Sauron,’ Thorin said, remembering the tales Dílna had told him in his youth. Galadriel nodded sadly.

‘Celebrimbor had hidden the rings from Sauron, wishing to keep them from his hands. The three elven rings he sent away to safety and their location he did not reveal, even under torture.’ Tears were forming in Galadriel’s eyes, Thorin saw to his horror. It was so easy to forget that the elves had often known those who were nothing but legends to the dwarves. Galadriel had clearly cared for Celebrimbor. Thorin could hear it in her voice as easily as he could see the tears. She paused for a moment before continuing.

‘The lesser rings he could not protect though,’ Galadriel told them. ‘Sauron destroyed Eregion and seized the rings, which he gave as gifts to the Dwarves and to Men. Through the power of his One Ring he tried to turn them from good. In time the Men were overcome, their lust for power making them weak, damning them. They faded away, entering the spirit world and becoming wraiths, dark and twisted. The Dwarves were harder to turn,’ Galadriel nodded to Thorin, ‘but they were corrupted in other ways. They grew to love gold beyond anything, to value it above all else. They did what they could to increase their wealth and if they were not evil, still they were no longer entirely themselves. Eventually their ruin came upon them, drawn by their greed.’

‘Like Thror,’ Bilbo said slowly. ‘That is where the gold-sickness came from.’

‘To a great extent, yes,’ Thorin answered. ‘As I said to you in the Woodland Realm, when first we spoke of rings, Thror valued his ring almost as highly as the Arkenstone. It soured his mind, I believe, and made him mad in the end. I know not where the ring ended up but I am not sorry it was lost. I much prefer my own.’ 

That was nothing but the truth. Thorin had happily replaced the rings he had worn before retaking Erebor with the one his nephew had forged for him. It, at least, held only good memories.

‘It is not this one?’ Bilbo questioned Thorin, pointing at the ring on the table. ‘That is why you are telling us the story, isn’t it, my lady? I have one of the lesser rings.’

‘No, Bilbo, it is not that one,’ Thorin replied, just as Galadriel also answered.

‘No, I do not think you have one of the lesser rings.’ 

As Bilbo frowned in confusion, Galadriel reached for the ring and then stopped, apparently having changed her mind.

‘Thorin, if you would,’ she requested quietly, ‘throw that into the fire, please.’ 

Thorin paused briefly, glancing at Galadriel for confirmation that he had heard correctly.

‘What?’ Bilbo interjected immediately, instinctively, coming to his feet. ‘No, you cannot, it will melt.’

‘Would it matter if it did?’ Thorin asked pointedly. Bilbo froze, staring at the ring he had already been reaching for. Then he took a step back, sat in his seat and tucked his hands under his legs. It was a move that Kíli had often made as a child, when he had broken something delicate and Dís had commanded that he was to touch nothing else.

‘If it is what I think it is,’ Galadriel declared gravely, ‘the fire will do it no harm.’

For a moment Thorin could not bring himself to move. This would change everything, he was certain. He had his own suspicions now, after Mahal’s visit and Galadriel’s tale, and Galadriel seemed sure that throwing it into the fire would confirm those suspicions. If they were right, then there would be no turning back. 

Taking hold of the ring, wincing at the icy sensation that almost immediately bit at his skin, Thorin turned towards the fire. As he did so, he realised that the ring was indeed aware of what was happening to some extent. It knew that it had no allies in this room now. It knew that they would thwart its purpose. Knowing that, the ring lashed out at Thorin with what power it retained.

Unfortunately for the ring, Thorin was a dwarf. They had been made to endure and to thrive even in difficult conditions. The cold and heat the ring threw at him were not comfortable, but nor were they debilitating.

Striding forward, Thorin threw the ring into the fire and Galadriel drew in a sharp breath, hands clenching on the arms of her chair. Bilbo closed his eyes, understanding enough to know that this was not good.

In the fireplace, writing appeared upon the surface of the ring, curved and graceful in appearance. It glowed red.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of research on One Wiki To Rule Them All during the writing of this chapter. Hopefully I haven't made it too confusing but if I have mentioned anything that makes you think 'What? Where did she get that from?' let me know and I'll try to explain it a bit better.


	7. Come and Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ring is a problem for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit quicker this time! I had some unanticipated free time and this one came quite easily. Much thanks to ISeeFire for beta-ing so quickly, even though my computer was determined that she wasn't allowed to see the last page! It's definitely the gremlins, my dear :D

Chapter Six: Come and Go 

‘What do we do?’ Bilbo asked in the silence that had fallen. He could not seem to take his eyes from the fireplace any more than Galadriel or Thorin could.

‘It must be destroyed,’ Galadriel said, though her voice seemed to come from far away. ‘It cannot be allowed to continue to poison the world and we cannot risk that it will make its way back to its master.’

‘Why do I fear that destroying it will be no easy task?’ Thorin queried tiredly. ‘Given that we have just thrown it into a fire and it shows no signs of being even slightly harmed.’

‘Sauron bound his power to the One Ring when it was created,’ Galadriel responded. ‘He would not have made it easy to destroy. I do not think even dragonfire would work. It can only be destroyed by the fire from whence it came.’

‘Oh well, that is one good thing at least,’ Bilbo commented, chuckling when his companions looked at him as if he was going mad. ‘I would feel very stupid for having killed Smaug if he could have destroyed an even bigger problem for us.’

‘That is your first thought?’ Thorin said incredulously. ‘Oh well, at least we don’t need the dragon we’ve already killed?’

‘One must be practical, Thorin,’ Bilbo told him seriously, though he suspected Thorin was not fooled. Bilbo had spent many years studying Balin’s tricks for lightening Thorin’s mood when he seemed inclined to brood upon a setback. Saying something ridiculous almost always worked.

‘You,’ Thorin scolded, ‘have been spending _far_ too much time with Balin.’

‘Balin would tell you there is no such thing,’ Bilbo responded cheekily. That was another good thing about today, then. Bilbo had won the bet with Balin about whether Thorin would ever figure out that they were comparing notes on how to handle him. Excellent. One could never have too much Old Toby.

‘Balin said that this was going to be a simple trip,’ Thorin muttered irritably. ‘Clearly he is losing his touch.’

‘I fear we must return to more sombre matters, Thorin, Bilbo,’ Galadriel interjected.

‘Of course,’ Bilbo answered immediately. There was such a thing as taking levity too far, he knew. ‘You said it would need to be destroyed by the fire Sauron used to make it. Will that be possible? Surely the forge he used would not still be lit after all this time.’

Galadriel’s reply was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed almost immediately by its opening. Celeborn entered quickly, concern showing in the very slightest frown.

‘My lady, is all well?’ he asked Galadriel. ‘You were startled and then greatly worried.’

‘I was, love,’ Galadriel answered, holding her hand out for Celeborn to take. ‘We will need to summon the rest of the Council. Something rather troubling has come to light.’

‘The rest of our guests have retired for the night,’ Celeborn informed her, wrapping her hand between both of his, ‘though Thorin’s companions await his return with Master Baggins. I will send messengers to Elrond and Saruman. Hopefully one of them will know where Gandalf is, if you do not.’

Galadriel closed her eyes for a moment and Bilbo was certain that, somehow, she was searching for Gandalf. Then she shook her head.

‘He is nowhere near here,’ Galadriel confirmed. ‘Elrond and Saruman will be our best hope. Send the messenger tonight. There can be no delay.’

‘What do you intend, my lady?’ Bilbo asked curiously.

‘I intend, Bilbo,’ she replied, ‘to bring together those who know the history of this ring and gain their advice on what is to be done. I do not believe that the ring can be hidden here. My power is not great enough to conceal it from Sauron forever. I will manage a few more months though, I hope. Time enough to obtain help from our allies.’

‘In which case,’ Thorin put in, ‘we had best make sure _all_ of our allies are here. We will need all the help we can get.’

‘Thranduil,’ Celeborn stated with a nod.

‘It is not only elves and wizards who can help in times of crisis, my lord,’ Bilbo pointed out. ‘The Men may well be able to aid us as well.’

If Bilbo had had to guess what emotion Celeborn was feeling right then, he would have gone for embarrassment. Valar knew that Celeborn was hard to read, but his eyes gave him away if you looked closely enough.

‘Very well,’ Celeborn agreed shortly. ‘We will send to the Woodland Realm and ask Thranduil to pass the message on to Dale. Another messenger can go south to Isengard, and then on to Rohan and to Gondor. Then one to Rivendell to summon Elrond; that should be everyone. I will send them now.' 

With that he left the room and Galadriel sighed softly as she turned to address Bilbo and Thorin.

‘Go and get some sleep, my friends,’ she suggested. ‘It would seem we will have much to do.’

***

The days of waiting passed more swiftly than Thorin had been expecting. Bilbo had been parted from the ring for now. It was kept in a locked box in a room guarded by two of Galadriel’s elves at all times. Thorin had been concerned that the ring might influence any guards but Celeborn saw that no elf was near it for too long and with that Thorin had to be content.

Dwalin had decided that the best way to deal with Bilbo spending twenty years in possession of an evil ring was to ensure that all members of their party were in perfect condition and ready to fight a war. The fact that Bilbo had agreed to this move, instead of playing a complicated game of hide-and-go-seek whenever Dwalin was in sight, had convinced the others that something was definitely wrong. So the dwarves and their hobbits spent much of their day in training, frequently with an audience of curious elves. Kíli was having the time of his life proving exactly how good a dwarf could be with his bow and milking the ‘I shot a dragon through the eye’ story for all it was worth. Fíli spent a great deal of time rolling his eyes, challenging Kíli to a fight with daggers and then dumping him onto his back in the dirt.

The elves clearly found the whole thing very entertaining. Thorin would have found it more entertaining had Dwalin not been trying to make up for twenty years of council meetings and missed training sessions all in one go. Mahal but he ached.

Liralin’s appearance just before his next bout with his Captain of the Guard was a blessing.

‘My lady asks for your presence, Your Majesty,’ she told Thorin quietly as she attempted not to be overheard by the others in the training area.

‘Of course,’ Thorin replied, rising and signing at Dwalin to explain that he was going to Galadriel. Dwalin signed back something impolite about lazy kings escaping well-earned thrashings, which Thorin generously ignored. ‘Is all well?'

‘I think so,’ she answered, but she did not sound convinced. Thorin looked around as they walked and noticed that the elves all seemed to be stood in groups, talking to each other in low voices.

‘What is it?’ he questioned quietly.

‘I am sure everything is alright,’ Liralin told him in an attempt at reassurance. She then promptly ruined it by saying. ‘There must be a good reason for my lady’s grandson to be here with another dwarf.’

‘Grandson?’ Thorin found himself asking involuntarily. Then he thought about the sentence a second time. ‘Dwarf?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Liralin responded worriedly. ‘I do not think I have ever seen one of the twins without the other and they have never brought a dwarf along on a visit before.’

‘No,’ Thorin said grimly, ‘I do not think this bodes well. What have the two of them got themselves into now? And how on earth did one of mine get mixed up in it?’

He sped his pace and his guide matched him easily. Shortly they were climbing the stairs to Galadriel’s flet and Thorin could pick out the voices of Galadriel, Celeborn and one of the twins. Hurrying forward he pushed open the door, only to immediately be confronted by a most indignant elf.

‘You!’ the twin exclaimed loudly. ‘I have ridden for hundreds of miles over the Misty Mountains, in the freezing cold of the first snowmelt, as fast as I possibly could, to deliver a message from my father and _you_ did not even have the goodness to be in your own Mountain when I got there!’

‘Now, lad, there’s no cause to be getting all excited,’ a very familiar voice added. ‘Thorin could not have known you were coming and it is not as if we did not feed and water you well enough when you arrived.'

‘Bofur,’ Thorin groaned miserably. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘Your Majesty,’ Bofur responded with a large grin and an exaggerated bow. ‘I knew Bilbo would pine without me, so I decided to come and join you.’ The twin snorted in a most unbecoming fashion.

‘His law-sister was threatening to geld him when I arrived,’ the elf told Thorin informatively. ‘Something about a word the little ones should not know.’

‘Nula was just a little excited, that’s all,’ Bofur countered. ‘She gets that way towards the end of her time. It will all have blown over by the time I get back.’

‘So rather than stay and face your inevitable punishment,’ Thorin clarified, ‘you decided to join El…’ here he stumbled. Life would be so much easier if the two of them weren’t so very identical.

‘Elladan,’ the twin added helpfully.

‘… to join Elladan in delivering his message to me.’

‘Exactly,’ Bofur agreed. ‘Only I don’t think the message is for you. I thought it was for Bilbo.’

‘Father did not actually specify,’ Elladan told them. ‘It was more of a general warning.’

‘Perhaps you had best deliver the warning to me, then,’ Thorin suggested, ‘as I am the one here.’

‘Of course,’ Elladan said. Then with an extravagant flourish he bowed to Thorin before continuing. ‘Your Majesty, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain in which you are currently _not residing_ , greetings from my father, Lord Elrond of Imladris. He wishes to make known to you that your generous and respectable hobbit, Master Bilbo Baggins, may be in possession of a rather dangerous artefact and requests that Bilbo make the journey to Rivendell as soon as possible so that they might discuss the situation further.’

‘By which you mean that Bilbo has the One Ring and Elrond has somehow found out about it,’ Thorin concluded.

‘Oh for the Valar’s sake,’ Elladan cursed. ‘You already knew? Well isn’t that just typic… The One Ring?’ Thorin didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone’s face drain of colour so quickly. ‘The ring Bilbo has is the One Ring?’

‘It is, Elladan,’ Galadriel told him helpfully. ‘I have seen it myself.’

‘Grandmother, could I trouble you for some wine?’ Elladan asked as he sat down abruptly. ‘I think I am going to need it.’

‘You are not the only one,’ Bofur said to him, as angry as Bofur ever seemed to be. ‘You and I are going to talk later about the things a dwarf needs to know about his friends. Weeks of travel and you didn’t see fit to tell me Bilbo was in trouble.’

Thorin was not sure that Elladan was even listening. He took the glass of wine that Celeborn handed him and gulped it in one go.

*** 

In deference to Elladan’s journey and clear horror, Thorin chose to let him drink his second glass of wine before questioning him further. That also gave Galadriel time to send for Bilbo, who was clearly going to be central to the discussion. Bofur had seemed stunned into silence after his brief anger, but when Bilbo entered the room he just looked at him and shook his head.

‘Only you,’ he said wryly, ‘could accidentally fall off a ledge into the bottom of a goblin cave and come out with the Dark Lord’s ring.’

‘This is entirely Thorin’s fault,’ Bilbo sniffed haughtily. ‘I never did a single unexpected thing until the lot of you turned up on my doorstep with your songs and stories and quests.’

‘In which case,’ Thorin argued, ‘it is actually Gandalf’s fault, as you once told me.’ Bilbo considered this for a moment before nodding sharply.

‘A fair point,’ he conceded. ‘It is all Gandalf’s fault.’

‘A great many things are,’ Celeborn observed. ‘Before we apportion any more blame, however, I would like to know the whereabouts of my other grandson. He has come to no harm, I hope, Elladan.’

‘That depends on how you look at it,’ Elladan sniggered, apparently recovered enough from his shock to find whatever had happened amusing. He sobered at a raised eyebrow from both of his grandparents. Their ability to do such things in unison was really quite impressive, in Thorin’s opinion.

‘Elrohir rode out with me from Rivendell, as planned,’ Elladan explained, ‘but he met with an accident just as we entered the Misty Mountains. His horse slipped on some ice and tumbled off a ledge, taking Elrohir with it. He broke his arm as well as knocking what little sense he has out of his head. When we returned home Father said that he would heal but not quickly enough to ride out again. Glorfindel announced that any elf who could not spot a patch of ice could not be trusted to ride out to war, though. I do believe my brother will be spending quite some time confined to Imladris.’

This last was said with a truly evil expression of amusement that earned Elladan another severe look from Galadriel.

‘Well, as long as he will recover from the injury I have no doubt his pride will recover from the punishment,’ Celeborn stated. ‘Now I think you had best explain to us how Elrond learned enough about Bilbo’s ring to send you hurrying to Erebor.’

The tale was, like many in Thorin’s life, one he would never have believed had he not been involved in it. That Sméagol, the creature from Bilbo’s adventures under the Misty Mountains, had made it all the way to the Shire in search of Bilbo and the ring, had come upon two hobbits and been taken in by them, before travelling to Rivendell to speak to Elrond… it was all so unlikely. Bilbo did not seem to find it so strange, however.

‘I remember Meriadoc Brandybuck,’ he said with a smile, ‘and Peregrin Took as well, though he would have been too young to remember me. A right pair they were, always into something even with Pippin barely old enough to walk. Frodo played with them a great deal when he was very young, before his parents died. Somehow, finding that they took Sméagol in and decided to teach him how to be a hobbit does not surprise me.’

‘They have been doing a very good job, from what I could see,’ Elladan told him fondly. ‘Pippin is nothing if not determined and Sméagol apparently adores him. Merry has his hands full keeping them both in line. They’d not been in Imladris more than two weeks when we found Pippin on a roof, clinging for dear life while Sméagol complained that he should never have gone onto the roof in the first place and Merry demanded to know what the two of them had been up to. They are all well-loved, especially by my sister.’

‘From what Bilbo told me this Sméagol was both violent and not of sound mind,’ Thorin said. He had not forgiven Sméagol’s attempt to kill Bilbo in the tunnels. ‘Are we sure that the hobbits are safe with him?’

‘They have been so far,’ Elladan told him. ‘Father says that his mind is badly injured and will never fully heal. He has fractured, I suppose, into two parts. Given what he had been carrying, and for how long he may have had it, I now find that less surprising. Such evil cannot but leave a mark. Smeagol may always be dangerous, but he has shown no signs of wishing to harm anyone since he arrived in Rivendell. Nor had he shown any in the Shire, by all accounts.’

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo said quietly, waiting until he had Thorin’s attention before continuing, ‘I was not so much better than he was when you tried to separate me from the ring.’

‘You resisted giving it up,’ Thorin argued. ‘At worst, you made some unpleasant threats about a friend’s work. That is very different from attempting to murder someone, Bilbo.’

‘Yet we forgave Glóin,’ Bilbo pointed out, face resolute, ‘for murdering a man under the influence of the gold sickness. Is it alright to forgive him because we did not care for the Master, but to condemn Sméagol because I would have been his victim?’

For that Thorin could find no answer. He could not forgive Sméagol’s attempt to kill Bilbo, could not consider it in any way justified. Bilbo was right, though. The Men of Lake-town, especially Ragna, would have been well within their rights to refuse to forgive Glóin, by Thorin’s reasoning. Sometimes life was so complicated that just thinking about such things made Thorin’s head ache.

‘Either way,’ Bofur began, providing a welcome interruption to Thorin’s thoughts, ‘the ring seems to be more of a problem than this Sméagol. What have you been planning? Assuming that you have been planning, of course. Seems like the sort of thing we should have a plan for.’

‘Yes, Bofur, there is a plan,’ Thorin responded as tolerantly as he could. He was still being given grief over his lack of a plan to kill Smaug when they had begun the quest. The fact that they’d successfully done so didn’t seem to have changed anything in the minds of the Company.

‘I have sent messengers to a number of those who might be able to help us to destroy the ring,’ Galadriel expanded, ‘including your father, Elladan.’

‘Perfect,’ Elladan said with much relief. ‘If you’ve already sent for Father then there’s no need for me to go anywhere for a while. A season in Lothlórien sounds wonderful.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ Celeborn said sternly. ‘Do try not to cause too much chaos, Grandson. The last time you were here we had to give our steward a month-long respite from his duties after you were gone.’

‘That was entirely Elrohir’s fault,’ Elladan replied airily. ‘Now, where are Fíli and Kíli? It has been far too long since I saw them.’

Thorin groaned inaudibly. This was not going to end well.

***

‘Don’t even think about it, laddie,’ a gruff voice commanded from behind Frodo. He jumped. He couldn’t help it. Uncle Dwalin always seemed to know exactly when he was thinking about doing something the adults wouldn’t approve of. It was very frustrating.

‘I wasn’t going to…’ Frodo started to say, trying his most innocent expression.

‘Bollocks you weren’t,’ Dwalin cut him off. This was why Dwalin would always be his second favourite uncle. He talked to Frodo just like he would to everyone else, not like he was a dwarfling.

‘I know exactly what you were thinking of doing, you little troublemaker,’ Dwalin continued, ‘and I have no intention of spending all day listening to Fíli and Kíli moan about their missing weapons because a certain pup decided to hide them in a hole in a tree. Go and put them back.’

‘They started it,’ Frodo muttered. Then he immediately wished he hadn’t. It made him _sound_ like a dwarfling.

‘No doubt,’ Dwalin answered. ‘They’ve been a complete pain in the arse since Elladan arrived. Which is why they’re going to be spending the next three days cleaning every single weapon that the Lord and Lady’s armourer can find. Put those back and you won’t join them.’

Sometimes it was best to know when to retreat, Frodo pondered. After your enemy had already been slain by a far cannier foe was definitely one of those times.

‘Yes, Uncle Dwalin,’ Frodo agreed happily. Then he quickly slipped through Caras Galadhon as quietly as Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Nori had taught him. What Fíli and Kíli didn’t know would never hurt Frodo, after all.

***

Thranduil and his entourage were the first of those summoned to arrive. They rode in just as spring was turning into summer, when the wood was heavy with golden flowers and its floor was still a carpet of gold.

Thorin was always happy to see old friends and it had been some time since he and Thranduil had met. Once Thranduil had dismounted and exchanged greetings with Celeborn and Galadriel, he turned to Thorin with the slight smile that meant Thorin was about to be teased mercilessly.

‘Causing havoc again, Thorin Oakenshield?’ Thranduil asked. ‘Was Erebor too quiet for you with the dragon gone?’

‘We’ve managed well enough without the dragon all this time,’ Thorin retorted. ‘Why does everyone always assume that I am responsible for these things happening? It has nothing to do with me.’

‘It is Gandalf’s fault,’ Bilbo informed Thranduil sagely. ‘We have it all worked out.’

‘Oh, have you indeed, Bilbo Baggins?’ Gandalf grumbled, appearing from the midst of the Woodland Realm’s party. ‘By all means, enlighten me. How is this ring you have never even had the courtesy to mention to me my fault, exactly?’

‘You might have said that Gandalf was with you,’ Bilbo whispered irately at Thranduil. Thorin fought valiantly to hold in his laughter.

‘I was not to know that you were going to insult him within moments of our arrival, was I?’ was Thranduil’s rejoinder. Bilbo huffed but could not argue.

‘It is your fault,’ Bilbo told Gandalf, ‘because you were the one who decided I needed to go on an adventure with a party of dwarves! I was hardly likely to find the most evil magical item in existence in the Shire.’ Bilbo clearly wasn’t expecting an answer. He should have been. This was Gandalf, after all.

‘Well, unless I purposely threw you off that ledge when you were captured…’

‘ _We_ were captured,’ Bilbo corrected. Gandalf continued as if he had not heard.

‘… _which I did not_ , then it cannot be my fault that you found the ring. Especially as I had never heard a word about it until I reached Thranduil’s realm and found a messenger there.’

‘You never did tell me where you had been,’ Thranduil reminded Gandalf. He received a flap of one hand in response, before Gandalf apparently thought better of not explaining.

‘I was at Dol Goldur, if you must know,’ Gandalf stated, ‘on my way back from Gondor. I wished to make sure that all was still quiet there. Which it was, though there is no saying whether it still will be now that the One Ring is in play once again.’

‘The ring is shielded as well as I am able,’ Galadriel broke in, causing Gandalf to look briefly abashed. He bowed his head respectfully before replying.

‘Of course, my lady. In truth, I could feel nothing as I approached, even when I tried.’

‘Then things are well enough for now,’ Galadriel stated firmly. ‘Soon the others will join us and we will be able to move events along, though I fear we may not be able to wait for Gondor and Rohan to answer. The ring tries my strength and I cannot continue to conceal it forever.’

‘Dale’s representatives will not be far behind us,’ Legolas informed those gathered. ‘Tauriel left almost as soon as we received the message and she planned to stop at Lake-town as well, so Eric may send someone.’

‘Then we will wait on Elrond,’ Galadriel decided, ‘and on Saruman.’

‘Saruman is not here?’ Gandalf queried, clearly surprised. ‘It is not like him to take so long to respond.’

‘He has been busy with some project or other for a number of years now,’ Celeborn replied in Galadriel’s place. To Thorin’s ears he sounded unhappy. ‘When last we tried to speak with him we barely received a reply. Most likely he has become distracted and has not noted the time passing.’

Thorin could not imagine the furore that would result if he became distracted in the forge and failed to respond to a messenger for weeks at a time. Wizards truly were a law unto themselves.

 

*** 

Thankfully the arrival of the delegation from Dale and Lake-town did not bring any more awkward moments for Bilbo, though others were not so lucky.

Bain, who had long grown out of the unfortunate, arrogant phase, arrived with Sigrid, two of their father’s councillors, a number of soldiers and Alnir in tow. He immediately made his way over to Galadriel and Celeborn.

‘My lord, my lady, I am Bain, son of Bard. My father asked me to make his apologies. He took ill over the winter and was not yet well enough to travel. My sister, Sigrid, and I come in his place.’

‘I remember you, Lord Bain,’ Celeborn said with the closest thing to a smile he ever wore. ‘You were a very efficient messenger, if I recall correctly.’

‘I did not think Eric and I were that memorable, my lord, but I am glad to know I was wrong,’ Bain replied, laughing slightly at his own memories.

‘This one _I_ remember,’ Galadriel said with a much wider smile at Alnir. ‘We met when my lord and I visited Erebor, did we not, young one? You were most complimentary.’

Alnir buried his head in Sigrid’s shoulder from his position behind her and muttered something inaudible. Sigrid only laughed and Galadriel joined her.

‘There is no need to be embarrassed, Master Alnir,’ Galadriel assured him. ‘A lady never minds a sincere compliment.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ Alnir said when he managed to recover himself, though his cheeks were still red. ‘I hope I have become more adept with them since then, though I must stand by my original statement.’

‘Should I be jealous, my love?’ Celeborn asked his wife, looking no such thing. Alnir flushed bright red again and Galadriel took pity on him.

‘Leave the poor boy alone, Celeborn,’ she chided. ‘I fear between us we are giving him and his companions a poor impression of our hospitality.’

Fíli clearly decided that this would be a good time to rescue Alnir, or at least his dignity. Stepping forward he went to greet the new arrivals and soon the rest of the dwarves were doing the same. Frodo made straight for Alnir, dragging Elladan along with him, and Bilbo thought for a moment before deliberately turning a blind eye.

If he did not know what they were up to, he could not possibly take the blame for it when they inevitably caused mayhem.

***

Elrond arrived some weeks later, with one of the strangest parties Fíli had ever seen. To his joy Elrohir was among them. Elladan had wondered if Glorfindel would insist he remain at home just to torment him, but apparently he had been merciful.

Next to Elrohir rode one of the most beautiful women Fíli had ever seen. Though elven and dwarven standards of beauty were usually very different (unless you were Kíli, but Fíli tried not to think about that too much) Fíli didn’t think anyone could deny how stunning the ebony-haired elleth was.

When she dismounted and ran to hug Galadriel, Celeborn and Elladan, Fíli came to the obvious conclusion.

‘That must be Arwen, then,’ Kíli murmured in his ear at the same time. ‘They always said she was beautiful but I didn’t expect…’

‘Me neither,’ Fíli answered equally quietly. ‘Look at Dwalin.’

Dwalin looked stunned and was staring at Arwen in astonishment, which was something Fíli needed to memorise in great detail so that he could recount it to Balin and Nori when he was back in Erebor.

‘Look at the Man they have with them,’ Kíli said with great glee as he nudged Fíli in the side and gestured with his head.

Fíli couldn’t hold in his own chuckle this time. There was indeed a Man with Elrond’s party, taller than any other Fíli had ever seen. He was dark-haired and carried himself like a king, a sight Fíli was very familiar with after watching Uncle for so long.

He was also giving Dwalin a look that was apparently meant to kill.

‘Somebody should probably explain to him that Dwalin is married to his axes,’ Fíli said with false concern.

‘Somebody should explain to him that acting like a jealous husband when you aren’t even the husband is not going to go down well,’ was Kíli’s response. His brother had a valid point. Ah well, best to let Lady Arwen deal with it then. Or Dwalin. That would be amusing. They hadn’t watched Dwalin humble anyone other than Uncle for a while.

All of which had distracted Fíli from his original thought.

‘Kíli, what _is_ that thing?’ Fíli asked, staring in appalled wonder. Not even all the talk of evil and the One Ring had prepared Fíli for this.

Nor had they prepared him for the burst of pain that followed that question.

‘OW!’ Fíli heard himself howl, embarrassingly loud amidst the quiet of Caras Galdhon. His knee was throbbing with pain and he felt as if he had been kicked by a mule.

So, of course, it turned out to be a hobbit.

‘He isn’t a thing!’ a small, curly-haired hobbit announced. Fíli would have put him as even younger than Frodo but this hobbit certainly wasn’t a shy child. ‘He’s Sméagol. Don’t call him that again.’

‘Pippin,’ a despairing voice said from nearby. Fíli turned to see another hobbit standing off to one side, giving the younger a half-hearted glare.

‘Fíli, I think Lothlórien is being invaded,’ Kíli mock-whispered. The elder hobbit’s glare was suddenly turned upon him.

Fíli’s attention had already been caught though.

‘Sméagol?’ he asked the hobbits. ‘As in the Sméagol that tried to kill Bilbo in the Misty Mountains?’

‘He didn’t!’ the one apparently called Pippin exclaimed. ‘He wouldn’t.’ His eyes turned back to Sméagol, who had approached them curiously.

When the creature didn’t immediately deny the charge Pippin’s face crumpled slightly. Despite the completely unwarranted attack he’d suffered moments ago, Fíli felt sorry for the young one.

‘I’m beginning to wish we’d never left the Shire,’ the elder of the two said to himself, looking to the roof of the forest as if praying for strength. ‘Come on, Pippin, Strider’s waiting for us. You too, Sméagol.’

With that, as well as a stern glance at Sméagol from the elder, the trio walked off without another word.

‘Were you expecting a hobbit invasion?’ Kíli asked Fíli with every appearance of sincerity. ‘I wasn’t.’

Fíli didn’t bother replying.

***

 


	8. Painful Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The councils of the great and the good are rarely without incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for the long wait for this chapter. After many interviews and tests and other stressful things I now have a new, permanent job, which I am very excited about. Mostly because it means I can use time that was being wasted on job applications to write Remember :D Hopefully the long-ish chapter will go some way towards making up for the wait!

Chapter Seven: Painful Truths

Two days after the arrival of Lord Elrond and his party, it became clear that Saruman was not likely to grace them with his presence any time soon. Bilbo could tell that the other members of the White Council were troubled by this fact, but he himself had never met Saruman and felt certain that those assembled were more than capable of concocting a plan without the other wizard.

Bilbo was far more concerned by Lady Galadriel’s growing pallor and the drawn, occasionally pained expression she wore. Lord Celeborn barely left her side, which worried Bilbo even more. Celeborn was notoriously hard to read. If his worry had become obvious then something was clearly wrong.

It was not hard to guess what that something was. Bilbo remembered the feeling Mirkwood had given him during the quest, when the forest had been dominated by Sauron’s evil. It had felt almost like sickness, if hobbits had been able to sense sickness in another. It had been a slimy, crawling sensation against Bilbo’s skin which had made him shudder involuntarily as he tried to shake it off. Lothlórien itself felt nothing like that wood, but there was an echo of that sour, oily feeling in amongst the beauty. Bilbo knew it was the ring. It pushed against Galadriel’s power constantly and now it was beginning to win.

‘I haven’t felt anything this wrong since we passed through the goblin caves,’ Bofur told Bilbo quietly. When Bilbo turned to look at him, Bofur’s eyes were solemn. ‘Then I thought it was the goblins,’ Bofur continued thoughtfully. ‘Now I wonder if the stone knew something we did not. Although our lady never gave any indication that something was wrong at home and the ring was in her halls for many years.’

‘I cannot say,’ Bilbo replied, feeling shame wash over him as it now did every time the ring was mentioned. The dwarves had welcomed him into their home, had adopted him and Frodo and treated them as honoured members of the royal family, and Bilbo had brought evil among them. The knowledge hurt deep inside, where his love for Erebor and her people resided.

Bofur was frequently oblivious to the subtleties of a situation but he knew Bilbo well. Even as these thoughts were running through Bilbo’s head, Bofur slid an arm around his shoulders and shook him slightly.

‘You didn’t know,’ Bofur said firmly, giving Bilbo a stern look that was completely foreign on his cheerful face. ‘You couldn’t have known. Besides, no harm came of it. The ring was nothing but a ring until you got here.’

‘I would have killed Thorin,’ Bilbo whispered lowly, fighting to keep the words in and failing. Valar, what he would give never to have thought such things. ‘When he first asked me to give the ring up I was ready to kill him for trying to take it from me.’

‘You wouldn’t have done it,’ Bofur answered with certainty. When Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, Bofur cut him off immediately. ‘You wouldn’t have done it, Bilbo! Half the time we struggle to get you to practice with live steel, you’re that worried about hurting someone. You certainly wouldn’t have hurt Thorin, no matter what any evil trinket was telling you to do. You’d have had to beat him for a start.’

‘Your faith in my martial skills is overwhelming,’ Bilbo informed him. He had wanted to sound dry and slightly amused. Instead his voice wavered.

‘Bilbo, that thing is evil and it was trying to make you evil too, but it couldn’t,’ Bofur said reassuringly. ‘It had twenty years to try and the worst you’ve ever done is hiss over it like a cat protecting its kittens. You didn’t attack Thorin, or even try to. You’ll be fine and so will everyone else.’

‘Sometimes I wish I could look at the world the way you do,’ Bilbo murmured softly. ‘How do you see so much good in things when I feel as if we’re on the eve of disaster?’

Now Bofur just laughed. It was the laugh Bilbo had heard so many times, a sound as natural to Bofur as breathing. It was that laugh that had made Bilbo feel truly at home within the Company so many years ago. Amidst a sea of dwarves with all of their many eccentricities and moods, Bilbo had found one who saw the ridiculous in situations and never failed to be amused by it. It was why Bilbo turned to Bofur on days like this, when the world seemed dark.

‘Disaster happens whether you’re happy or sad, my friend,’ Bofur announced expansively. ‘So why not be happy as long as you can? Worrying about things won’t make them go away. Besides, no one’s dead yet. That’s more than can be said for the last feast we held in Erebor.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t phrase it like that, Bofur,’ Thorin said jadedly as he approached, obviously having caught only the very end of the conversation. ‘People will begin to think Erebor holds duels to the death at our feasts, or something equally ridiculous. Gallin’s weak heart and over-indulgence in ale were out of our control.’

‘Of course they were,’ Bofur agreed readily, ‘but that doesn’t change the fact that he died at the feast.’ 

Thorin stared at Bofur, then shook his head, muttering ‘I give up,’ under his breath.

‘Is there news?’ Bilbo asked Thorin then, deciding it was high time they changed the subject. Thorin did not need to know what Bilbo and Bofur had been talking about before his arrival. It would only make him fret.

‘Celeborn has requested that the representatives of the kingdoms meet with him and Galadriel,’ Thorin told him. ‘He believes we can wait no longer and I am inclined to agree.’

‘So am I,’ Bilbo responded, remembering his initial thoughts. ‘Galadriel looks ill and I have never seen an elf look ill before.’

Bilbo wondered if the relief he felt was clear to Bofur and Thorin. He would be so glad to have this over and done with.

*** 

Kíli had attended many councils since he had become a Prince of Erebor in truth. Not quite as many as he ought to have attended, admittedly, but he was mostly over that phase now. There was an unspoken agreement among his family that they were each allowed to miss two of the really boring council meetings (the ones where much said and nothing important was ever decided) each year. As long as he had those days, Kíli could force himself to attend all the other meetings.

This council was a little different though. Kíli had a feeling that the Council of Lothlórien was going to change everything.

The delegations had been seated around the clearing, full of those Kili held dear. Children he’d watched grow to adulthood, though sometime he scarcely felt like an adult himself. Princes he called friends and brothers-in-mischief. Kings and Lords who had borne tolerantly the mischief they’d caused. Most of the time.

Mahal, he hoped they would be enough. They had to be.

Kíli was scared.

Scared of the evil that they were trying so hard to hide. Scared of the even greater evil that would rejoice at having it returned to him.

There had been whispers over the years. Whispers of the darkness growing in Mordor. Reports from Gondor of rare sallies across the Anduin, as if Gondor’s strength was being tested. Once or twice, traders arriving at Erebor had been certain that they’d been followed, though none of them had ever spotted anyone doing the watching. No patrol sent to scour the area had ever found anything of note.

Little things, maybe, but in hindsight Kíli found them especially unnerving. What if Sauron wasn’t as unaware as they all thought? What if he’d already been planning to make a move against Middle Earth?

How far would he go to get the ring back?

Kíli had a horrible feeling that he knew the answer to that question. He just wasn’t sure what they could do about it.

***

‘You all know why you have been called here,’ Celeborn stated to begin the Council. He glanced around the clearing and seemed satisfied when no one disagreed. ‘The One Ring, forged by Sauron and imbued with his power, has been found. These last weeks it has resided here, guarded by my lady’s power. The longer it is here, the more powerful it grows.’

‘And the more I must do to keep it hidden,’ Galadriel finished. ‘I cannot continue this for much longer.’ Now it was Galadriel’s turn to look around at the gathering. ‘I do not think it would be wise for the ring to remain here even if that was not the case.’

‘It must be destroyed,’ Elrond agreed readily. ‘While it remains intact it will always be a danger to Middle Earth. A weapon that Sauron could use to terrible effect if he gained possession of it.’

‘I think we can all agree that,’ Gandalf added.

‘Can we?’ a member of Bain’s party asked quizzically. ‘You tell us that this is an object of great power, Master Gandalf. A weapon, in fact. Weapons can be wielded by both sides in a war.’

‘Are we at war?’ Thranduil queried. Though his tone was idle, his eyes were sharply focused on the speaker. Kíli felt rather sorry for the Man. He’d suffered that focus a time or two himself. It always made him feel like dust in the sights of an overzealous housewife. ‘I cannot say I had noticed.’

‘Are we not?’ the Man responded, his own tone brusque. ‘I was given to understand by Lord Bard that Sauron retreated back to Mordor when he fled Dol Guldur twenty years ago. If he is not likely to make an attempt to retrieve the One Ring, then why are we bothering to hide it? And if he is going to make an attempt to retrieve it, then surely we are at war. In which case, it is a weapon that we could use.’ 

That was a good case for considering themselves at war, Kíli concluded, and Thranduil must have agreed for he gave a short nod of concession. Even so, Kíli suspected that using the ring as a weapon was not an argument that was going to gain favour here.

He was right.

‘A weapon, Master Styrr, can cut both ways,’ Gandalf said repressively, ‘and the ring is no ordinary weapon. Your sword, for example, might serve you well, but it would make no efforts to return to you should you drop it during a battle. The ring is sentient. It wishes to return to Sauron and it is very unlikely to aid us in his downfall. Any attempt to use it against Sauron would doubtless fail.’

‘Sentient?’ Bain asked abruptly. ‘You mean it can think?’

‘After a fashion, yes,’ Galadriel answered him. ‘It has a purpose, Lord Bain, and that purpose is to serve its Master as best it can. In order to fulfil that purpose it can exert some influence on the world around it. It cannot move itself, but it could convince you to move it where it wished to be instead. It might not be able to kill a man, but it could, given time, convince a man to kill for it.’

‘A piece of metal that can turn men’s minds to murder,’ Bain said quietly with a shake of his head. ‘So, if we can’t use it, how do we rid ourselves of it?’

‘The One Ring was forged in the fires of Mount Doom,’ Elrond explained to the assembly, ‘deep within the heart of Mordor. If it is to be destroyed, it must be there. Nothing else will undo the magic that Sauron embedded within it.’

‘Oh, well, that will be easy,’ Dwalin groaned. ‘We’ll just walk it into the centre of Sauron’s power and ask him to kindly look the other way while we throw his long-lost piece of jewellery into a volcano. Did you let Thorin make the plan?’ he asked Elrond irritably. ‘We strictly forbade him from making plans after we retook Erebor.’

‘That plan _worked_ ,’ Uncle retorted, before hastily adding ‘and in any case that is long past and not relevant to this discussion.’

‘The current plan is still ridiculous, no matter who came up with it,’ Suiadan, one of Thranduil’s attendants, remarked. The elf was not keen on dwarves, Kíli knew, and it seemed to physically pain him to agree with one. Especially Dwalin, whose respect for Thranduil and their other elven friends did not prevent him from making snide comments about ‘prissy tree-lovers’ in their hearing. Uncle had long given up trying to make Dwalin stop and Thranduil benevolently pretended not to hear. Not all of his court were so patient. ‘Just because Sauron is too weak to venture out of Mordor does not mean that we would be able to sneak the ring past him.’

‘If all we are going to do is come up with reasons not to try and destroy the ring then this Council will be a complete waste of time,’ the Man Kíli now knew as Estel stated angrily. ‘If it was easy then it would have been done centuries ago.’

‘As it might well have been,’ was Suiadan’s rejoinder, ‘had your ancestor not failed at the vital moment and kept the ring for himself.’

Had Suiadan not been an elf Kíli was sure he would have slapped his hand over his mouth as soon as he finished speaking. Instead his teeth snapped together and his head whipped round to look at Thranduil, before dropping forward to look at the floor. The air in the clearing seemed to grow heavy for a moment as no one spoke.

‘I believe it goes without saying,’ Thranduil said regally after a pause, bowing his head to Estel, ‘how greatly the Woodland Realm regrets that statement, Aragorn. It was beneath us and we apologise.’

Oh, Suiadan was going to regret that comment for a long, long time, Kíli thought. Thranduil using the royal we was never a good sign.

‘Accepted,’ Estel answered after a gentle touch on the arm from Lady Arwen. His demeanour was tense and his expression unhappy, but he managed a nod in return.

‘Ancestor?’ Alnir questioned then, leaning forward in his seat. ‘That was Isildur, but then that would make you…’

‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn,’ Elrohir continued with some pride, ‘heir to the throne of Gondor.’

‘I did not realise any of that line still lived,’ Bain said thoughtfully, eyeing Aragorn with interest. ‘The Stewards have ruled so long.’

‘They have,’ Aragorn acknowledged, still stiff, ‘and might do for a long time yet. The men of the House of Elendil are not known for their long lives. If we are to attempt to destroy the One Ring, I might well continue that tradition.’

‘Which brings us back to the true subject of this discussion,’ Celeborn declared, taking control of the conversation once more, ‘how we are to get the ring to Mount Doom without drawing Sauron’s attention to it.’

‘About that, I had an idea,’ Gandalf said immediately. Kíli was not surprised. Gandalf almost always had ideas when he made one of his periodic visits to Erebor. The wizard was rarely without them. Kíli instinctively turned towards Uncle and watched him barely restrain a groan of despair. Yes, that was what Kíli had thought would happen. 

‘Why do I feel that I am not going to like this?’ Uncle muttered very quietly. Kíli saw Fíli reach over and pat him gently on the arm in an expression of sympathy. Bilbo chuckled quietly enough that no one outside their own party heard him.

‘Sauron will not be easily distracted from the ring once he learns that it is abroad once more,’ Gandalf continued, without any idea of the suffering he was causing. ‘He will search for it with every resource at his disposal and, though his resources are not as numerous as they once were, we cannot count on his being defenceless. Mordor is quiet, but not silent. There are always, unfortunately, orcs, no matter how many one kills.’

‘Which should not stop us from trying to eradicate them,’ Glorfindel opined calmly.

‘Indeed,’ Gandalf agreed brusquely. ‘However, that brings us to the main problem. No matter how much we wish it were otherwise, Mordor is heavily guarded and any army that attacked it would bring Sauron’s wrath upon themselves.’

‘I presume you have a solution to the problem,’ Thranduil interjected when Gandalf seemed inclined to pause in his explanation. Gandalf threw him an irritable look. Kíli had forgotten how much Thranduil enjoyed annoying Gandalf and the other members of the White Council. It was always so much fun to watch, despite the dark subject.

‘I was getting to that,’ Gandalf huffed irritably. ‘If we cannot break Sauron’s defences,’ he continued with great gravity, ‘then we will need to try cunning. A smaller party must venture forth with the ring, making sure to keep their existence as quiet as possible. There are passages into Sauron’s lands and, though they will be watched, a small number might well manage to get through. They would be far more likely to make their way to Mount Doom without incident.’

‘Except that Sauron will be on the watch for the ring and any hint of its presence in his lands will have his forces falling upon the unfortunate souls in an instant,’ Elrond said calmly. It sounded like he was rejecting Gandalf’s plan but his serenity made Kíli think otherwise. It did not seem like a rebuke, more like a prompt. Gandalf certainly took it as one.

‘Well that,’ he announced with a glint of mischief in his eye, ‘is where the rest of you would come in.’

‘A diversion,’ Uncle stated with great certainty. ‘You mean to draw Sauron’s eye away from the ring towards something that he cannot ignore.’

‘Exactly,’ Gandalf replied in a pleased tone. ‘Sauron understands power and force best of all. He might use guile to get what he wishes when it suits him, but it never occurs to him that his enemies might try to trick him. That would require acknowledging their intelligence. If he sees an army marching upon Mordor then he will draw the obvious conclusion…’

‘That the army comes with the ring, in an attempt to overthrow him,’ Legolas concluded.

‘I do not imagine that he will believe we mean to destroy the ring in any case,’ Galadriel put in. ‘It is not in his nature to turn away from such power as he filled the One Ring with. He will assume that our intention is to use the ring against him, as he would try to use such a powerful object against us. That, too, might work in our favour.’ 

‘It might well,’ Elrond agreed, ‘as long as he does not somehow sense that the ring is not with the army.’

‘Then we give him every reason to believe that it will be,’ Thranduil said with some glee. Kíli had never considered Thranduil particularly bloodthirsty, well not after he had got to know the elven King anyway, but he seemed to relish the thought of such a battle. Thranduil’s next statement explained why.

‘At Dagorlad he faced an army of the greatest and most powerful forces that we could gather and he saw that as his due. Let us give him the same now. Galadriel is right, he will believe that we mean to keep the ring and use it, and that means he will expect it to be with the most powerful of us.’

At that point, Thranduil gestured to Galadriel and to Elrond, encompassing Celeborn and Glorfindel in the wave of his hand.

‘I…,’ Glorfindel began to say, only to be drowned out by most of the Rivendell party.

‘Yes, Glorfindel, you can be the bait,’ they chorused. Glorfindel did not seem at all fazed by the interruption. His smile beamed brightly and the rest of him began to glow to match.

‘That tells us where most of us will be,’ Celeborn said, drawing their attention once more, ‘and who will be at the head of our host, apparently,’ at this he nodded towards Glorfindel, ‘but it leaves us with an even greater question. Who is to attempt the journey into Mordor?’

Almost instantly a cacophony of voices rang out across the clearing, including Kíli’s own. If something so dangerous was to be attempted, then of course he was going to volunteer. He had survived one perilous quest, after all, so he would be a good candidate for this one. 

Kíli, like everyone else, was brought to silence by a shout that nearly deafened him. When he turned to glare fiercely at Uncle for the damage to his hearing, he was confronted by the aura that Uncle only wore when he was being Heir of Durin’s Line and intended to flatten any objections before they got started. Deciding to pick his battles wisely, Kíli shut his mouth.

‘If you are all quite finished trying to speak over each other,’ Uncle said with a calm, regal glance around the clearing, ‘I believe Lord Elrond had something he wished to say.’

‘Thank you, Thorin,’ Elrond commented with an amused half-smile. ‘I had thought to introduce you to someone before we make any further decisions about this quest. I believe that his story might prove… educational.’

Educational? That didn’t sound good, Kíli thought. Education generally meant that Kíli was about to receive bad news which someone, usually Balin, thought would be good for taking the wind out of his bellows.

Lady Galadriel did not seem to share his apprehension.

‘Of course, Elrond,’ she said graciously. ‘I had wondered when we would be properly introduced to your guests. They have not been much in evidence these last two days.’

‘I will go,’ Elrohir told Elrond simply, rising and leaving the clearing quickly.

***

As nothing was going to happen right that instant, Kíli decided now was as good a time as any to conference with his brother. Rising from the chair, he stepped quietly over to where Fíli stood, on Uncle’s other side.

‘We’re both going, of course,’ Kíli murmured in Fíli’s ear once he was close enough. Fíli looked at him condescendingly.

‘Of course we’re going,’ his brother muttered back. ‘You think we’d let Bilbo go off on another adventure without us?’

‘No, that’s why I said we’re going,’ Kíli grumbled. Honestly, older brothers were such a pain. Why did Fíli always have to assume that Kíli hadn’t thought of the obvious?

Hang on.

‘Bilbo?’ Kíli asked as quietly as possible. ‘How do you know Bilbo’s going? Nobody’s decided anything yet.’

‘I think a lot of people have decided,’ Fíli answered equally quietly, eyes flitting from one face to the next. ‘Including Bilbo. Look at him.’

Kíli did and it didn’t take long to see what Fíli meant. Bilbo wore the resolute expression that he had pasted onto his face before he went off to confront Smaug for the first time. He was also taking deeper breaths than normal, which he always did when he was nervous.

Even as Kíli took all this in, Uncle apparently came to the same conclusion. Leaning over he began to talk to Bilbo softly, tilting Bilbo’s face towards him when their hobbit tried to look away.

‘I am not going to be the one to talk to Uncle when he loses his temper,’ Kíli told Fíli seriously. At his brother’s questioning look he gestured towards Bilbo and their Uncle. ‘Uncle doesn’t want him to go and Bilbo’s determined that he’s going. Which of them do _you_ think is going to win? How foul is Uncle’s mood going to be when he realises he can’t stop Bilbo from going?’

‘Good point,’ Fíli responded quickly. ‘We’ll send Dwalin.’

‘Of course you will,’ a gruff voice muttered from behind them. They both jumped and whirled around to face Dwalin nervously. ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it?’ the other dwarf complained. ‘When Thorin’s in a bad mood, send me to deal with him. I hope the two of you will be warier of your surroundings when you’re trying to get into Mordor. Much good you’ll do Bilbo dead because you were too busy gossiping to pay attention.’

‘We will guard Bilbo as carefully as you would,’ Fíli said loftily. Dwalin snorted.

‘Somehow I doubt that,’ he said dryly. ‘You’ll have to do though. If Erebor marches to war Thorin and I will be needed at home.’

‘We’ll let you remind him of that, as well,’ Kíli offered innocently as he inched backwards to his seat, just out of Dwalin’s reach. Thankfully Dwalin decided he wasn’t worth chasing.

Conveniently, that was also when Elrohir re-entered the clearing, this time followed by the creature called Sméagol and the two Shire-hobbits.

***

All eyes turned to Lord Elrond’s party as they were joined by Elrohir and his companions. Elrond gestured for them to seat themselves, although only the two hobbits did so. Bilbo gazed curiously at Sméagol, who remained crouched by their sides. Elladan had spoken truly, it would seem. The Sméagol here was not, on the surface at least, the same creature he had spoken to, and fled from, under the Misty Mountains.

‘Master Meriadoc,’ Elrond said gently, ‘I believe those gathered here might benefit from hearing your story, if you would.’

‘Should we explain about Sméagol now then?’ Merry asked.

‘We would appreciate the telling, Master Meriadoc,’ Celeborn told him without the slightest hint of emotion. Poor Merry seemed more perturbed than encouraged by these words and for a moment his voice failed him completely. Bilbo stepped forward, meaning to intervene somehow, as he would have done had Frodo been so disconcerted. Unfortunately, his well-intentioned gesture created a more troubling problem.

Sméagol, who up until that point had seemed almost in a world of his own, caught sight of Bilbo as he moved and his face contorted with rage.

‘You stoles it,’ he shrieked, taking all present entirely by surprise. ‘Gives it back! Gives it _back_!’

So saying, he poised himself to leap at Bilbo in a fury. Pippin, showing rather more awareness than Bilbo would otherwise have credited him with, jumped forward himself and caught hold of Sméagol’s arm in an attempt to calm him. Sméagol turned and struck at him viciously and Pippin jerked back with a yell, one hand rising to clutch at his cheek where Sméagol had hit him. The look of betrayal on his face was plain.

‘Sméagol!’ Merry shouted a moment too late. ‘What are you doing?’ Merry stepped to Pippin’s side and pulled his hand down, looking his cousin over with concern before relaxing when he realised no real harm had been done. Pippin’s cry had been more of shock than of pain.

Sméagol had stopped now, looking very much like a child’s puppet suddenly abandoned by its puppeteer. He looked from Merry to Pippin in confusion, not seeming to understand what had happened himself. Then, suddenly, he uttered a keening noise and began to rock slightly in place.

‘Oh now, stop that,’ Merry scolded him, as he might a younger cousin who had been caught in some scrape. ‘There’s no need for any carrying on. You shouldn’t have hit Pippin, but you need only say sorry and all will be mended.’ The gaze Merry settled on Pippin at that moment made it clear that all would be mended or Merry would know why.

Pippin straightened from the protective hunch he had fallen into and stepped towards Sméagol, arm out once more to touch him. This time Sméagol allowed the touch easily. Bilbo was tense himself. He remembered only too well how strong Sméagol was and he knew how compelling the ring’s lure could be. It became apparent, however, that for now his fears were unfounded.

‘We is sorry,’ Sméagol told Pippin plaintively. ‘We did not means it, we is sorry.’ There was a quaver in Sméagol’s voice which reminded Bilbo very much of the moment he had decided not to kill the creature. That thought reminded him also that Sméagol was right in one regard. Bilbo had stolen from him. Provoked or not, he had taken what was not his to take.

Nervous but determined, Bilbo walked over to the trio. He could sense Thorin, Fíli, Kíli and Dwalin all tensing instinctively, ready to haul him away from the slightest hint of danger. Bilbo could not help but be glad of it. A mithril shirt would not save him from having his neck wrung. Nevertheless, he kept moving. 

Once he was near to Sméagol and Pippin, Bilbo crouched slightly so that he could speak to Sméagol without having to peer down at him.

‘I am also sorry,’ Bilbo told him sincerely. ‘When we met many years ago things ended badly. I was angry that you had tried to hurt me and desperate to find a way to escape without being killed by the goblins. No matter my reasons, however, I took something from you that I had no right to. It was wrong of me and I am very sorry.’

Sméagol did not seem to know how to respond. In fact, Bilbo realised, Sméagol seemed entirely befuddled by what was going on around him. He had had moments of confusion during their past meeting as well, but not like this. What on earth was wrong with him, Bilbo wondered.

‘Hobbit will gives it back?’ Sméagol asked at last, apparently having decided on what he wished to say. Bilbo gaped slightly, not quite sure how to respond. Gandalf rescued him after a moment.

Crouching far more than Bilbo had had to, Gandalf made sure that he was meeting Sméagol’s eyes with his own. In this moment he was not the wizard who rode to battle with evil and flattened enemies with blasts of light and sound. He was the kindly figure the Shire knew well. The wizard who set off fireworks for the joy of watching awe in young eyes.

‘He cannot, Sméagol,’ Gandalf explained gently. ‘Do you remember what Lord Elrond and I spoke to you about? Your precious is an evil thing and we must destroy it. Bilbo cannot give it back to you.’

Sméagol’s face twisted, then calmed, then twisted again. It was obvious that he was undergoing a great struggle, a mental turmoil so deep that he seemed almost to change personalities between one instant and the next. This Bilbo recognised, having seen it once before. He took a step back in the hopes it would give him a better chance of escape if things went badly. When Sméagol settled, however, it was on the confused, almost innocent, aspect of himself.

‘Precious is evil?’ he asked, his disbelief easy to see.

‘Yes,’ Gandalf told him, not at all impatient even though he had clearly had this conversation with Sméagol before. ‘It is evil. Tell me, Sméagol, when did it begin to hurt you to go into the sun?’

‘Sun?’ Sméagol repeated. The repetition only emphasised his confusion. ‘We goes in sun now. Hobbit told us about sun.’ 

This last was clearly intended to refer to Bilbo and he did recall some comments from their earlier conversation now that Sméagol mentioned it.

‘You didn’t always go in the sun, though, did you Sméagol?’ Bilbo asked him quietly. ‘When we met you were hiding in the mountains to escape from the sun.’

‘Hurt us it did,’ Sméagol answered with a nod. ‘Burnt us and drove us inside.’

‘When did that start?’ Gandalf queried then, though he seemed to be leading Sméagol to a conclusion rather than truly asking. ‘When did you need to hide, Sméagol?’

‘Precious,’ Sméagol said slowly, making his way through the murky conversation with difficulty. ‘Precious told us inside was safer. No burning there.’

‘Inside with goblins and orcs was safer than outside?’ Gandalf questioned and now Sméagol was clearly troubled and confused once more.

‘If I may, Gandalf?’ Galadriel said then as she walked over. Gandalf ceded his place without argument.

‘It is hard to remember, is it not?’ Galadriel asked Sméagol. ‘Your memories of your life before the ring came to you are confused?’

‘Sméagol is confused,’ he agreed with her solemnly. ‘Elf-lord helps us but shadows not gone. Just smaller.’ Bilbo felt as sorry for Sméagol in that moment as he had when the creature had cried over the loss of his ring. What had this evil taken from him, that he could not remember?

‘I could help you to regain your memories,’ Galadrield informed Sméagol. ‘I could bring back more of what you have forgotten, as Elrond did. You must choose it, though, Sméagol. I will not do so unless you wish it.’

‘Help us remember,’ Sméagol wondered out loud. ‘Help us remember more about rivers and fishing and De….’ Here he stopped and did not seem inclined to continue.

‘De…?’ Merry prompted, giving the impression that this happened fairly regularly.

‘Déagol,’ Sméagol murmured in answer, seeming almost frightened of uttering the name. Bilbo assumed it was a name anyway.

‘Who was Déagol, Sméagol?’ Merry asked then.

‘Déagol was…,’ again Sméagol seemed reluctant to finish. ‘Déagol was Pippin,’ Sméagol said finally. He did not look at Merry directly and shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

‘Your cousin,’ Merry concluded aloud. ‘You had a cousin.’

‘Yesss…,’ Sméagol answered, the last syllable drawn out into a hiss.

‘Would you like to remember Sméagol?’ Galadriel questioned again. Again, Sméagol warred with himself for several moments before answering quietly.

‘Yes,’ he told Galadriel, ‘Sméagol wants to remember.’ Galadriel nodded and reached out to touch Sméagol’s brow. At a glance Elrond and Gandalf joined her. For several minutes no noise could be heard. No one dared to speak and break whatever spell was underway. Finally, however, the silence was broken.

Broken by keening sobs that seemed likely to shake Sméagol apart.

‘Sméagol,’ Merry cried, clearly alarmed. ‘What did you do to him?’ he demanded of Galadriel, manners thrown to one side. 

‘We helped him to remember, Master Meriadoc,’ Gandalf answered in her stead. ‘Those who have been touched by evil, especially so great an evil as the ring, often have hard memories to go with the comforting ones.’

‘But what does that mean?’ Pippin cried out in frustration. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He did something,’ Merry said slowly, thinking aloud. He was looking at Sméagol intently, listening, and as Bilbo listened he heard what Merry did. Soft little noises in between the sobs that sounded like a name. Déagol. ‘Something he hasn’t remembered properly that hurts him now that he has,’ Merry paused briefly before continuing. ‘He hurt his cousin, didn’t he?’

Bilbo felt himself jerk slightly at these words. He should not have been surprised. Sméagol had tried to kill him once, under the influence of the ring. Why assume he had not previously caused harm under its influence? Perhaps, Bilbo pondered, it was not the announcement that had surprised him as much as the source. His cousin was not as blind to the danger Sméagol posed as Bilbo had thought.

‘I believe so,’ Galadriel answered, viewing Sméagol’s tears with compassion. ‘The ring has much influence over minds. It is entirely possible that he did not comprehend what he had done properly until now.’

Throughout this speech Pippin had stood silent, watching with unusual reserve. Now he stepped closer to Sméagol, paying no attention to anyone else. He sat next to Sméagol as the pitiful creature wailed with grief and wrapped one arm around Sméagol’s scrawny shoulders. Bilbo heard what he said only because he stood nearby.

‘He would forgive you,’ the youngest hobbit told Sméagol gently. ‘If you were his Merry then he would forgive you, no matter what it was you did. I promise.’

Sméagol curled into Pippin desperately. Pippin simply tightened his grip and rocked gently back and forth until the sobs finally subsided and Sméagol’s worn body slipped into sleep.

******


	9. Earning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forming (and naming) of the Fellowship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is posted with massive thanks to ISeeFire for the two separate beta readings it needed! Considering she's managing three stories at once and still coming up with new ideas, I am amazed and grateful she finds the time :D
> 
> Part of this chapter is for rexthranduil and another part for Lani (much overdue, unfortunately). I would have gifted the chapter but I couldn't figure out how. Feel free to let me know how if you do :)

Chapter Eight: Earning 

‘Well, I must admit, Elrond, when you said that you had a story for us that would be educational, I was not expecting anything quite so… dramatic.’

Thus Thranduil broke the stillness in the clearing. Pippin still sat on the ground, cradling Sméagol against him. Elrond, Galadriel and Gandalf looked on with concern while Merry hovered nearby, not seeming quite sure what to do. At Thranduil’s words Elrond gave him a stern look which the Elven King ignored entirely, as was his wont.

‘Estel, bring Sméagol over here,’ Arwen said next, quietly but still easily heard in the silence. Pippin tensed and turned to look at her and she gave him a reassuring smile.

‘He is exhausted, Pippin, and the two of you cannot stay down there all day. Let Estel keep him while the Council is completed and then we will put him to bed.’

As she spoke, Estel or Strider or whatever-his-name-actually-was rose and took the few steps necessary to gather the pitiful Sméagol up off the floor. Bilbo apparently decided that this was his signal as well, for he moved back to the area where Fíli and the others were stood, hands slowly releasing their weapons. Finally able to relax now that Bilbo was out of danger, Fíli sat down as Bilbo retook his own seat. It took less than a second for Dwalin and Uncle to begin their scolding.

‘When a dangerous lunatic attacks you, laddie, you don’t go and stand next to him after he has been stopped, for Mahal’s sake,’ Dwalin rebuked him severely.

‘Bilbo, what were you thinking, you fool?’ Uncle growled at the same time. ‘He tried to kill you!’

‘Stop it, both of you,’ Bilbo returned, shaking his head at them. ‘No harm was done and I had to talk to him at some point.’

‘No,’ Dwalin argued, ‘you didn’t. Perhaps you took the blasted ring from him but he tried to attack you. You don’t owe him anything.’

‘He tried to attack me, yes, but whether I choose to forgive him for that is my own choice,’ Bilbo responded. ‘It is not for the two of you to tell me what I can and cannot do. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions and have been for a good many years now.’

‘Oh, of course, why should we worry about it?’ Dwalin bit out. ‘We’re only the ones who would’ve had to save your hide if everything had gone wrong. Nothing to do with us at all.’

This, Fíli decided, was going nowhere good. Especially when they were quickly becoming the focus of the entire Council as everyone had returned to their original places.  

‘A conversation for another time, Dwalin,’ Fíli urged, receiving a disgusted look for his trouble. Luckily Uncle had caught on to the attention they were getting as well and signed for Dwalin to stop. Dwalin gave an angry snort but subsided.

‘Lord Elrond,’ Sigrid said worriedly when Erebor’s party was quiet once more, ‘I am afraid I don’t completely understand what you wished us to learn. Who is this Sméagol?’ Elrond gave her a kind look, the complete opposite of the expression he had bestowed upon Thranduil earlier.

‘That was not exactly how I expected the scene to play out, Lady Sigrid,’ Elrond replied wryly, 'so it is little wonder you are confused. Master Sméagol is, to the best of my knowledge, the longest-standing bearer of the One Ring save for Sauron himself. He was once a hobbit, we believe, but the ring has long since changed him.’

‘Bearer,’ Sigrid said with horror, glancing at Sméagol and then across the clearing, ‘but Bilbo….’

‘Has held the ring for only a tiny fraction of the time that Sméagol did,’ Galadriel hastened to assure her. ‘This was not a transformation that took place overnight, my dear. What happened to Sméagol is highly unlikely to also happen to Bilbo.’

‘Which is a great relief to me as well,’ Bilbo interpolated , smiling at Sigrid warmly. Fíli knew him well enough to see that the smile was thin, without Bilbo’s usual joy behind it, but most of those gathered were far enough away that they did not notice. ‘Do not worry, Sigrid, I am perfectly fine.’

‘So you wished to teach us to be fearful of the ring, then?’ Alnir asked, tone more reserved than it normally was.  

‘Not necessarily,’ Elrond confirmed. ‘You are all brave souls, ready to fight to save Middle Earth from this evil,’ he continued, ‘but to take the ring to Mordor will be a challenge of mental fortitude as well as fighting prowess. You have heard us speak of the influence the ring can have, of the perils it can pose, but I wished you to see the worst of what it can do. Despite all our healing, despite all the magic the Eldar have left to us, Sméagol will never be fully healed. He has shattered, and I cannot put him back together again. That is the risk you take if you set out upon this quest. You will be forever changed, perhaps for the better and perhaps not. You must understand that before you make your decision.’

‘Yet a moment ago you told us that Sméagol’s sickness was the result of years of keeping the ring,’ Bain told him. ‘So which is it? Is such madness a risk only if we are around the ring for a very long time, or might it take us even if we succeed quickly?’

‘We cannot offer you answers with such certainty, Lord Bain,’ Gandalf said resignedly. His eyes were tired and his expression deeply saddened. ‘It is not so simple. All Lord Elrond is trying to do is warn you that the ring itself will pose a danger on this quest. Orcs and other creatures will not be the only perils that you must be wary of.’

‘Either way,’ Bilbo stated with great certitude, ‘I will be going.’

‘Bilbo,’ Uncle objected strenuously, clearly ready for a fight.

‘No, Thorin,’ Bilbo replied immediately, turning to look at Uncle alone. ‘This is my task, as retaking Erebor was yours. The ring has come to me and through my weakness it was kept hidden for twenty years, while Sauron had time to settle himself in Mordor. I will go to destroy it whether you approve or not.’

‘Then you will not go alone,’ Uncle said fiercely, ‘as I did not retake Erebor alone.’

Bilbo looked at Uncle so sadly that Fíli felt his heart clench. Uncle had been so happy when Bilbo had come home. He had been so certain that all would now be right with the world. That Bilbo would never be parted from their family again. It would break his heart to be left behind.

‘Uncle, you can’t,’ Kíli stated then, much to Fíli’s surprise. Weren’t they leaving Dwalin to do this bit? Apparently not. ‘You’re the commander of Erebor’s army. If our kingdom is to march to war you have to be there. You know that.’

Uncle looked at Kíli, then at Bilbo, his eyes troubled and unhappy. Then he looked at Dwalin and Fíli saw their Captain of the Guard nod his head firmly.

‘No,’ Uncle said regretfully. ‘You are right, Kíli.’

‘We have had our day,’ Thranduil commented then, catching Uncle’s eye and drawing the rest of the Council back into their discussion. ‘Let this quest be theirs. There will be enough fighting to share regardless.’

‘I seem to remember,’ Uncle said, trying to sound more like his usual self and only partially succeeding, ‘a certain hobbit killing a dragon at the end of my quest. Which would suggest that perhaps he has had his day as well.’

‘Ah, but I was far, far younger than you,’ Bilbo teased gently, clearly glad that Uncle was not going to have one of his periodic explosions, ‘and so have the energy for another quest in me.’

‘Careful,’ Uncle warned him. ‘You have not beaten me in a fight in twenty years, Bilbo Baggins, so mind who you are calling old.’

‘We’ll be sending the lads with you,’ Dwalin told Bilbo firmly, rolling his eyes at the pair of them. ‘Make sure you bring at least one of them home. Dís will have a fit if you don’t and I won’t be protecting you from that bloody spoon of hers.'

Thranduil made a choking noise at this point, flapping his hand at Legolas when the Prince made a mock-solicitous move to thump him on the back.

‘You did not tell me,’ Thranduil said to Uncle in a tone of great mirth, ‘that she still had the spoon.’

‘She doesn’t,’ Fíli responded gleefully before Uncle could speak. ‘It broke on the journey to Erebor. It’s a new one. She commissioned it just so she’d have one to hit Dwalin with.’

The noise of Dwalin muttering death threats was almost completely covered by Thranduil’s laughter.

‘Well,’ Legolas interrupted quickly, looking at his father out of the corner of his eye. Fíli got the distinct impression that he was timing what he was about to say very carefully, ‘obviously I will be going with you.’

Thranduil stopped laughing immediately and gave Legolas a sour look which Fíli’s friend pretended didn’t bother him.

‘Ionneg,’ Thranduil reprimanded sternly, ‘do not ever make the mistake of thinking that you are subtle. You will, indeed, be going on the quest, as I would have agreed had you requested leave from your duties to do so.’

Legolas smiled sheepishly but didn’t say anything. No doubt he didn’t want to push his luck.

‘So that makes one hobbit, two dwarves and an elf,’ Bain said appraisingly as he looked over at Bilbo. ‘We’d best add a Man, for the sake of balance if nothing else.’

‘You wish to join them, Lord Bain?’ Elrond queried.

‘Wish to, yes,’ Bain responded, ‘but I cannot. Unless Father has made a miraculous recovery he will be in no fit state to lead Dale’s armies.’

‘He has been that unwell?’ Thranduil asked with surprise. ‘Why did you not send for Malial?’

‘He won’t hear of it,’ Sigrid replied unhappily. ‘Obstinate man. He says it is no more than a cold and we should stop fussing. It must be an impressive cold, though, it kept him in bed for a week at one point in the winter. All three of us have been doing what we can but he’s as stubborn as a mule.’

‘I will send Malial to Dale as soon as I return home,’ Thranduil told her in a slightly exasperated tone. ‘There is no need for Bard to be ill when there are healers within a few days ride.’

‘We would appreciate it,’ Bain said gratefully. ‘Perhaps Malial will be able to do what we could not and convince him to rest for a while.’

‘Sigrid will join us then,’ Fíli concluded aloud and received her nod in reply.

‘Then I’ll be going as well,’ Bofur announced. ‘Bifur would never forgive me if one of his lasses went on a dangerous quest and I didn’t go with them.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Bilbo spoke, pretending to be offended, ‘you would not risk life and limb for me but you will go for Sigrid.’ Fíli was still looking at Sigrid when this was said and he could have sworn she flinched slightly at the words.

‘So,’ Kíli said as Bofur acted the part of the indignant friend, ‘that makes six of us. Not a bad number all told.’

‘Not quite as impressive as our last quest,’ Fíli continued immediately, ‘but not bad. When do we set out?’

‘With all due respect,’ the Man with too many names interrupted. Fíli resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No statement that started that way was ever really respectful, ‘Master Bofur seems an odd choice for such a quest. When we spoke yesterday he told me that he was a miner, and he is clearly no warrior.’

‘He fought in the Battle of the East when you were barely old enough to hold a sword,’ Dwalin said dismissively to the Ranger. ‘Bofur can hold his own. Besides, I don’t believe that you have any say in who joins this company and who doesn’t.’

‘I prefer to know the skills of my companions before I begin travelling, Master Dwalin,’ Strider (Fíli was just going to call the man Strider, he decided, it was far easier) asserted.

‘Estel, we can vouch…’ Elladan began, only to be interrupted by Bofur himself.

‘Lad, have you heard of the stone speech?’ he asked pointedly.

‘I have heard the legends,’ Strider responded cautiously. ‘Some of the tales told in Imladris mention dwarven magic of that sort.’

‘Then I have a treat for you,’ Bofur told Strider, ‘for they are not legends. The stone speech is a fact. There are dwarves with the ability to talk to the stone and the rock of this world. Imagine it. Stone runs through almost everything. Through the ground you walk on, through mountains and river beds. Even through the cities of Men, like the one your forefathers called home. I bet the City of the Kings has many tales to tell. Erebor certainly does. The ground… that tells a different sort of tale. It tells of who has passed that way. Of treacherous spots and crumbling pathways. Of dangers that might be approaching. It tells those tales to me, as it does to my cousin. Is that a good enough reason for you, lad?’  

Strider stared for a moment, then bowed his head. ‘Of course,’ he replied very quietly, wincing slightly as he noticed the expression on Lord Elrond’s face.

‘Good,’ Bofur said firmly. ‘Now, perhaps someone could explain to me why you’re coming.’

‘If we are to compare skills and experience then we might be here for a long time indeed,’ Celeborn chose to interrupt, ‘and time, I fear, grows short. Let us try and make this simpler. Bilbo, Prince Fíli, Prince Kíli, if you would join me please.’ Celeborn gestured to the space in the centre of their circle, which he had moved to stand in.

Fíli rose to his feet immediately and crossed to stand next to Celeborn. This was all getting a bit complicated and Celeborn would be a good person to untangle it.

Once they were all stood together, Celeborn spoke again.

‘Very well, we have the beginnings of our company,’ he stated, gesturing at the three of them.

‘That could become confusing very quickly,’ Glorfindel pointed out nonchalantly.

‘Indeed,’ Thranduil agreed in a similar tone. ‘After all, there has already been a Company in recent memory.’

‘I hardly think the name is the most important concern here,’ Celeborn responded, tone entirely calm. Deliberately so, Fíli thought. If you looked very, very carefully, there was a slight pinch between Celeborn’s brows.

‘Ah, but names are important things, Celeborn,’ Glorfindel chided gently, as if talking to a young child. Celeborn frowned perceptibly now, head turning towards Thranduil when he joined in again.

‘They are,’ the Elven King asserted gravely. ‘All three of this new company have been part of the previous Company. It could be very confusing for them. Perhaps if it was a fellowship instead…’

Celeborn made a slight irritated noise under his breath.

‘Enough,’ he commanded firmly. ‘The two of you can continue this nonsensical wager between you later, when we do not have serious matters to discuss.’

Fíli could not help being slightly amused, despite the gravity of their situation. The three elven lords, all blond and tall and regal in their own ways, all locked in a battle of wills, were a sight to behold. Thranduil gave way first, nodding a brief acknowledgement to Celeborn, his small smile holding a hint of apology. Celeborn held his frown for a moment, then shook his head wryly.

‘That never gets old for you, does it?’ he asked Thranduil in exasperation.

‘Not at all,’ Thranduil replied. This exchange had covered a swift conversation between Elrond and Glorfindel, which ended in a put-upon sigh from the balrog-slayer.

‘Very well, I will behave,’ Glorfindel conceded. ‘Carry on.’

‘Our Fellowship then,’ Celeborn resumed, ‘begins here. I believe we can all understand Bilbo’s reasons and as he has carried the ring thus far without any major incidents,’ Fíli noticed a wince from Bilbo and stored it away for later consideration, ‘it seems wise that he should continue to do so. Any other who wishes to join Bilbo on his journey should speak now and we can decide.’

‘Fíli and I are both trained fighters, we’re Bilbo’s family and dwarves are notoriously hard to control with evil magic, even Sauron’s,’ Kíli summed up quickly. ‘Three very good reasons for us to go.’

‘Agreed,’ Celeborn stated when no one said anything. ‘Prince Legolas is prepared to stand as a representative for his people, so he should join us as well.’ Legolas was there so quickly that Fíli nearly went cross-eyed trying to see him.

‘Lady Sigrid, you would stand for Dale on this quest?’ Celeborn asked her plainly. Sigrid nodded firmly.

‘I will,’ she agreed and rose from her seat.

‘Should a woman be…,’ Elladan began, stopping dead when he found himself the focus of a number of hard looks. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘It is not our way, that is all,’ he protested.

‘Consider yourself lucky that Tauriel is not here,’ Legolas advised him. ‘Especially as we trained Sigrid between us.’

‘With some help,’ Fíli could not resist adding. Sigrid raised her eyes to the leaves above.

‘I have been very well trained by a number of people,’ she interposed sharply, then settled when Bain cleared his throat pointedly behind her. ‘All of whom can testify to my experience,’ she continued in a less antagonistic tone.

‘As I believe Father is apt to tell people,’ Arwen inserted from her position, still seated, ‘just because the women of Imladris do not often fight does not mean we cannot. You know better than that, Elladan.’

‘I stand corrected. Repeatedly,’ Elladan conceded to Sigrid. ‘My apologies, Lady Sigrid.’

‘No offence taken,’ Sigrid offered. Fíli suspected she was not being entirely truthful, but it was a good effort at least.

‘That brings us to Master Bofur, whom I believe has already made his own argument for his inclusion,’ Celeborn continued tonelessly, as Bofur moved to stand between Kíli and Sigrid without waiting for anyone to object. Fíli was beginning to realise that Celeborn used his lack of expression to say a great deal.

‘My brother and I would also join the Fellowship,’ Elladan proposed then. ‘Father has worked long to bring about Sauron’s doom and we would do our part to see this evil ended.’

‘I thought the point of this quest was to be unobtrusive,’ Kíli contradicted, mostly for the sake of annoying Elladan, Fíli was sure. ‘We seem to be collecting quite a crowd.’

‘You managed to get thirteen dwarves and a hobbit halfway across Middle Earth without too much ruckus,’ Elrohir joined in. ‘If dwarves can manage to be unobtrusive then two more elves will certainly be no trouble. We have far more fighting experience than you two, anyway, and the dwarves are not the only ones who have resisted Sauron’s designs.’

‘You’re too easy,’ Kíli laughed and Elrohir flicked him between the eyes with a scowl. Kíli didn’t look too concerned and Fíli wasn’t either. The twins would get over their annoyance quickly. They always did.

‘I would join this quest as well,’ Strider spoke then. Fíli noticed Elrond’s narrowed eyes focused on Strider’s arm, then followed the gaze down to see that Strider had Lady Arwen’s hand clasped in his own. Arwen herself, Fíli could see, looked worried but resolute. Strider would receive no resistance from her. ‘As I have been reminded today, my line once failed to meet the challenge of defeating this evil. I would redeem that failure, one way or another. Narsil,’ here Strider unwrapped the object he was now holding, to reveal the broken shards of a sword, ‘once cut the One Ring from Sauron’s hand. I would wield it in defiance of the Lord of the Rings once more.’

Fíli had to hand it to the Man, he had a gift for kingly speeches. Fíli snuck a look at Uncle to gauge his reaction to such majesty, only to see that Uncle’s eyes were focused entirely on Narsil.

‘That was a fine work of dwarven craftsmanship,’ Uncle said with some awe. ‘Telchar was the greatest of all our smiths in his time.’

‘That he was,’ Elrond agreed, laying his displeasure at Arwen and Strider’s affection aside for a moment. ‘I had thought to have it reforged for Aragorn before we set out, but it occurred to me that it might be more fitting another way. Your nephew is becoming renowned in his own right, Thorin, and I have been told you are skilled yourself. If you would not mind the trouble, of course.’

Kíli was bouncing on the spot. Fíli could feel him, their sleeves brushing against each other in a truly irritating way as Kíli went up and then down, up again and then down once more. Reaching out, Fíli caught Kíli’s wrist and pulled downwards firmly. He would never admit to anyone how much he struggled to hold his brother still. All those hours in the forge had made Kíli stronger than Fíli would like.

Uncle was smiling widely as well. Fíli still didn’t understand why the two of them got so excited about smithying. It was a vital skill, of course, and Fíli did still practice when he had the time. You never knew when you might need to… well, when you might need to fix a broken sword. That didn’t mean you had to get so excited about the whole thing.

Clearly Kíli and Uncle disagreed.

‘We would be honoured, Elrond,’ Uncle told the Lord of Imladris happily. ‘If Lord Aragorn does not mind, of course.’

‘Not at all,’ Strider replied, looking less tense than he had since Fíli met him. He was smiling, in fact, which made him look younger and less like he had a stick up his backside, as Dwalin would say. Fíli hoped this was a better indication of the man’s personality. Their quest would be much more interesting if they were all prepared to laugh once in a while.

‘It would seem we have a fellowship for our quest then,’ Galadriel declared, rising and moving to stand next to her husband, resting her hand on his arm and leaning her head upon his shoulder for a moment. Fíli had not yet found his One and usually such displays made him feel awkward. The affection between Galadriel and Celeborn just made him smile. They were sweet, in a way he had never expected the Lord and Lady of an elven kingdom to be.

‘I would like to go as well,’ Alnir said hurriedly, then blushed as Galadriel looked over at him. That was just hilarious, Fíli thought. Another thing to remember to do – find out what exactly Alnir had said to make him blush every time Galadriel paid him the slightest attention. ‘I am trained as a warrior and, though I know you have already have enough of those, my lady, I feel as if Lake-town should also do what it can. Bain can take word to my brother.’

‘Not to your father?’ Galadriel asked softly, glancing at Uncle quickly.

‘Varr died three years back, my lady,’ Uncle told her, looking sad. Varr had been a good neighbour to Erebor and a good friend. His loss still hurt, a brief pang each time Fíli thought about him. Varr had never been quite the same after Halma died though. Fíli did not know whether there had been love between them, or simply a deep friendship. It had not been his place to ask. He just hoped they had been reunited now, either way.

‘He would have wanted me to do what I could,’ Alnir told Galadriel seriously. ‘He taught us that we should never stand by if we might be able to help do some good.’

‘A fine lesson indeed, Alnir,’ Gandalf said with equal gravity. ‘One more to add to our Fellowship of the Ring then. We are, I believe, now complete. Bilbo. Fíli. Kíli. Legolas. Sigrid. Bofur. Elladan. Elrohir. Aragorn. Alnir. And, of course, myself. We are ready.’

This listing was given in so portentous a voice that Fíli almost expected something magical to happen, like the nimbus of light at Uncle’s coronation.

What he wasn’t expecting was for an elf - Haldir the unflappable, of all elves - to skid into the clearing and announce, ‘My lord Celeborn, you must come quickly.’

******


	10. Many Paths To Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, plans only last until the enemy does something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all of the comments and kudos so far. This chapter comes courtesy of my last day as a temp, in which I had nothing to do, and the usual wonderful beta-ing from ISeeFire.
> 
> Chapter title stolen from Tolkien. I'm sure you all know where from :)

Chapter Nine: Many Paths to Tread

Frodo watched Sméagol’s keening and sobbing uncertainly. This creature – this _hobbit_ – had tried to hurt Uncle Bilbo twice now. Frodo had heard the story of the strange being under the Misty Mountains only once, during a week when he and Uncle Bilbo had been housebound by snow in the Shire. Uncle Bilbo had told him of the songs Sméagol had sung, and the lucky escape he had had, as if it was all a grand adventure from far, far away. As a faunt, Frodo had taken it as exactly that and had marvelled at the excitement of Uncle Bilbo’s life and how brave he had been. He had never thought, then, of what could have happened if Uncle Bilbo hadn’t escaped from Sméagol. In fact with more interesting tales to hear, of trolls and orcs and a dragon his uncle had killed, Frodo had rather forgotten the story entirely.

Until now. Until Sméagol had tried to hurt Uncle Bilbo again. Now Frodo was finding it difficult to feel sympathy for the other hobbit, no matter how terrible his life might have been. Sméagol was a murderer. He had attempted to murder Bilbo. Why should Frodo feel sorry for how sad he was? He wouldn’t be sad at all if he hadn’t hurt his own family over a stupid ring.

The conversation that followed worried Frodo even more though. Uncle Bilbo was all set to go off on a quest to destroy the ring and not even Uncle Thorin and Uncle Dwalin had been able to stop him. Even worse, he was taking Fíli and Kíli with him. Frodo wanted to stand up and shout that he was going too, but he knew it would be pointless. Uncle Bilbo was determined to shield him from everything. He had only let Frodo learn to fight because none of the rest of their family would take no for an answer.

Frodo was going to be left behind. Just as his parents had once left him behind, years ago. Only this time it would be deliberate. Uncle Bilbo was choosing to go.

Well they wouldn’t be going without Frodo, no matter what they thought. Just because he hadn’t been chosen didn’t mean he was just going to sit behind and wait. He was going to follow them, far enough that they wouldn’t be able to send him back, and then he would tell them that he was there.

***

Frodo had to admit to being as startled as everyone else when a blond elf, one he only vaguely remembered seeing before, hurtled into the clearing and shouted for Celeborn. It had felt as if the most important events in the world were taking place right here and so he hadn’t bothered paying attention to anything else.

He was paying attention now though. Everyone was.

‘My lord, there are orcs marching on Lothlórien!’ the elf exclaimed, before making a visible effort to calm himself. ‘A small army coming from Dol Guldur and spreading out along the banks of the Anduin.’

As Frodo watched, Lord Celeborn, whom Frodo had decided wasn’t anything like as boring as King Thranduil said he was, changed. His face went cold and hard somehow, even though he didn’t scowl as Uncle Thorin would have. Frodo thought that he could be scared of Lord Celeborn when he looked like this.

‘That’s not possible!’ Gandalf exclaimed immediately. ‘Dol Guldur was clear when I left and that was only a few weeks ago. It could not possibly be holding an army so soon afterwards.’

‘Clearly it could,’ Lord Celeborn replied angrily, ‘for that army is now approaching our borders. Haldir, why have we had no word of this before now?’

‘I would also like an answer to that question,’ Thranduil snapped, though he was not looking at Haldir but was instead turning to his own party. ‘There ought to have been at least three patrols going past Dol Guldur in the time since we have been gone. How could they have missed such a thing?’

‘Mine is not the only magic that can conceal,’ Galadriel reminded them. She seemed to be the calmest of them all, but Frodo imagined it took a fair bit to unsettle the Lady of Lothlórien. ‘It would be difficult, but it is not impossible that such a thing could be hidden.’

‘Yet the last time it was attempted I sensed and eventually broke the spell,’ Gandalf argued. ‘This time there was nothing.’

‘The strength of the spell would come from the strength and number of those holding it in place,’ Elrond added, face creased with concern. ‘Sauron wished for you to see what was at Dol Guldur, Gandalf. No doubt it amused him to have you do so.’

‘You believe he allowed the spell to be broken then,’ Celeborn concluded, ‘but this time he held it strong.’

‘Sauron could not have held a spell at Dol Guldur,’ Gandalf pointed out. ‘He has been in Mordor these last twenty years.’

‘Sauron is not the only evil with power,’ Elrond stated gravely. ‘Radagast told us he fought Angmar at Dol Guldur. You yourself said that his burial chamber was empty when you checked. If the strongest of the Nazgûl rides abroad, why not the others as well?’

‘The Nine,’ Strider murmured. Frodo looked over at the Man and saw that his face was almost white. ‘If the Nine are leading these orcs then we are in grave danger indeed.’

‘If there are orcs on the far side of the Anduin then the Fellowship would be in danger anyway,’ Thorin added, though he seemed as if he was focused on something far away, not in the here and now. ‘They would be targets for archers all along the bank if they left using the river.’

‘Is anybody else wondering how these orcs even knew to come here?’ Dwalin asked suddenly. ‘They should not have known that the ring had been found, let alone that it was in Lothlórien.’

‘That much is true,’ Lady Galadriel answered, ‘and it concerns me as well. For now, however, I fear we must be more concerned with the consequences than the reasons. Perhaps my shields were not as strong as I thought they were.’

‘I find that unlikely,’ Elrond told her, but before he could develop this thought they were interrupted once more.

‘The orcs are spreading quickly,’ another elf informed the Council as he entered the discussion. This one Frodo did not know at all, but he was dressed in the uniform of Lothlórien’s guard. ‘All the way to the Celebrant Field by the scouts' reports.’

‘The Fellowship cannot take the river,’ Celeborn said firmly. ‘It is the most obvious path and they would be in full view of the orcs. Unintelligent they may be, but even orcs would see something amiss in a small group sailing away from a Council alone. The Nine would only need to follow the course of the Anduin to find them.’

‘It is still the easiest route, though,’ Fíli argued. ‘If we could outrun them….’

‘Then still Sauron would know exactly where you were and would be equally certain that you were coming to his lands,’ Gandalf corrected him. ‘If you arrived at Mordor with his entire army arrayed along the border you would be dead before you made it ten steps in. Secrecy and distraction remain our best options here. We must convince Sauron that the ring is not yet heading towards Mordor.’

‘So we do not try to escape them,’ Glorfindel announced, drawing all eyes to him. Frodo thought that any orcs that saw Glorfindel right then would probably run away without even trying to fight. ‘We give them the fight they are looking for.’

‘Glorfindel, I enjoy fighting orcs as much as anyone,’ Elrohir told him worriedly, ‘but how is having the Fellowship engage in full scale battle meant to help?’

‘I did not say the Fellowship should take part in a battle,’ Glorfindel said with a ferocious smile. ‘I said we should give them a fight. With our Council done we would be returning to Rivendell anyway. If we suddenly appear out of the eaves of the forest at a gallop, how long will it take the orcs to converge upon us, I wonder?’

‘A very long time, if you cannot convince them that you have the ring with you, Glorfindel,’ Legolas pointed out. ‘They must know what they are here for or why would they come? Suddenly appearing on the eastern edge of the forest when normally you would go north is hardly subtle.’

‘Orcs are not subtle creatures,’ Lord Elrond said thoughtfully. ‘We planned to use that to our advantage when we marched on Mordor. There is no reason we cannot do so now. If we make it clear we are shielding something, trying to hide it from them….’

‘They will likely believe exactly what we wish them to believe,’ Glorfindel finished. ‘In the meantime, our Fellowship travels to another point, further to the south, and leaves that way. If Galadriel and Gandalf work together to shield the true ring there is no reason for the orcs to know that there is more than one group. Our party leave the forest in plain view of the orcs, with Elrond clearly shielding something he does not wish them to see. Why should the orcs look elsewhere?’

‘The further south you travel the fewer the orcs, my lord,’ another elf proclaimed. Frodo had no idea where this one had appeared from. The clearing suddenly seemed to have three times as many people in it as it had before, all of them clustered around the Lord and Lady of the Wood.

‘Why would that be?’ Kíli asked suddenly, tone suspicious. ‘Why not guard the south as well or better than all the rest? Mordor is south of Lothlórien, it is the obvious choice if we could not go directly east through the Wilderland.’

‘Perhaps they think we will march on Mordor immediately, or take the ring north to Rivendell and try to hide it there. It is unlikely that they expect a small party to head out with the ring rather than a large army,’ Master Strider suggested. ‘Even if they did, they cannot guard the entirety of the Anduin unless their numbers are far vaster than they appear.’

‘It does seem strange, though,’ Uncle Thorin agreed. ‘We should consider the possibility that they are trying to draw us out that way.’

‘I do not think we have much of a choice even if they are,’ Gandalf argued. ‘We must get the ring out of Lothlórien, one way or another, and every way is blocked somehow. We cannot use the river to move south and going north would put us so far out of our way we would take weeks to make up the ground. With Nazgûl abroad that would be a perilous loss of time. If we can draw the orcs towards the north then the south will be safest. If there is more trouble that way then we must head for Rohan as swiftly as we can and take aid from its Riders.’

‘If we are to try for one diversion, why not more than that?’ Thranduil asked, looking around. ‘There are a great many of us here and we all have homes to get back to. If we all head out at once, surely that will give the orcs plenty of targets to focus on.’

A murmur of agreement could be heard and Frodo noticed Bain and Sigrid turn to their people, either giving commands or asking questions, Frodo thought.

‘We will need to move quickly,’ Alnir stated. ‘The longer we wait, the more time they will have to strengthen their forces. We cannot be certain that there are not more marching behind these.’

‘First thing in the morning,’ Glorfindel asserted, ‘as soon as the sun is truly up. Orcs hate daylight, they will be weaker then and easier to confuse.’

‘The Fellowship must wait some time afterwards,’ Fíli added. ‘We will need time for the orcs to decide that all of the excitement is happening elsewhere. Especially if we are hoping for them to follow Elrond’s party in particular.’

‘Orcses is stupid,’ Sméagol’s voice piped up, sounding slightly raw from all the noise he had been making earlier. He had clearly woken during the discussion and now stood next to Lady Arwen, with Merry and Pippin on his other side. His interruption caused a ripple of reaction through the group and Frodo watched curiously as Lord Elrond and Glorfindel looked at each other, conversing silently. Then Lord Elrond knelt before Sméagol.

‘Sméagol, when we leave for Rivendell will you come with us?’ Lord Elrond asked him. It was a strange question and Sméagol looked as confused as Frodo felt.

‘Sméagol go with precious,’ he told Elrond, as if this should be obvious. Beside him Merry made a small noise which drew Sméagol’s curious gaze to him. ‘Merry and Pippin not go,’ Sméagol told the hobbit. ‘Too dangerous. We be fine, we is good at killing orcses.’

‘Sméagol, you can’t go with the ring,’ Merry explained carefully. ‘They are taking it to destroy it. We’ve told you that.’

‘Yes,’ Sméagol replied. ‘We knows. We is not stupid. Sméagol can help.’

‘No, Sméagol,’ Merry contradicted him, ‘I don’t think you can.’

‘Merry not make sense,’ Sméagol objected irritably in the silence that had fallen.

‘Sméagol,’ Pippin now joined in, ‘you hurt your Déagol because of the ring, didn’t you?’

Sméagol jerked as if he had been hit, then froze before making another of the keening noises he seemed to revert to whenever he was upset. Frodo didn’t feel sorry for him. He didn’t.

‘Yes,’ Sméagol whispered after a moment. ‘Yes, we hur… we killed Déagol,’ he finished firmly, almost as if he was confirming it to himself rather than answering Pippin’s question.

‘And you tried to hurt Bilbo,’ Merry reminded him. ‘You’ve tried to hurt him twice, haven’t you, because of the ring?’

Sméagol only nodded.

‘You can’t go, Sméagol,’ Merry told him again. ‘You’re too dangerous when you’re near the ring.’

Sméagol said nothing. He rocked back and forth for some time, looking at nothing in particular and apparently thinking hard. Then he stopped, turned to Lord Elrond and said, ‘Sméagol go to Rivendell. Elf lord helps us, now we helps elf lord. But hobbits stay here. Orcses too dangerous for hobbits.’

‘They will stay with Arwen,’ Elrond assured him. ‘They will come to no harm here.’

‘Why does he need to go?’ Pippin asked Elrond. His tone was not necessarily argumentative, but it was certainly worried.

‘Sméagol has been touched by the ring in a way no one else has,’ Elrond told Pippin calmly. ‘It is nothing palpable to most, except perhaps as a faint sense of unease, but it is present. The Nazgûl are bound to the ring, they should be able to sense it. If they do and I begin to shield him, they might be more easily fooled into thinking that the ring travelled with me. I promise, Pippin, we will do all we can to keep him safe.’

‘Which is why Elrohir will be coming with us,’ Glorfindel announced abruptly. ‘He will guard Sméagol while Elrond focuses on shielding him and I focus on keeping the orcs’ attention. Which will also, helpfully, keep him where I can see him and make sure he does not have any more accidents.’

‘Glorfindel!’ Elrohir objected immediately. ‘I am to go with the Fellowship. It was decided.’

‘You don’t have to go, though, do you?’ Pippin asked him earnestly, seizing upon the idea. ‘You could stay with Sméagol and keep him safe.’

‘He will be with Father and Glorfindel, Pippin,’ Elrohir argued, although his tone had weakened a little. ‘He could not be any safer.’

‘Ah, but we are both responsible for all of those who will be travelling with us, in one way or another,’ Glorfindel commented. His tone was airy but his eyes seemed oddly serious. Frodo wished he knew what Glorfindel was thinking. ‘You could guard Sméagol with no other concerns to distract you,’ the elf continued.

‘And if I refused?’ Elrohir asked very quietly, his focus on Glorfindel alone.

‘Then I would be forced to make it an order,’ Glorfindel answered simply. Elrohir’s gaze immediately turned to his father, but Lord Elrond did not intervene.

‘Very well,’ Elrohir said tensely. He gave a sharp nod and looked as if he would storm off for a moment. Then he stopped and turned to Merry, Pippin and Sméagol, giving them a very small smile before he walked away.

***

Elladan did not think his brother had ever been angrier in his life. His mind was roiling and the names he was calling Glorfindel internally would have shamed a sailor. Elladan tried to calm him slightly but, apart from managing to remind Elrohir of how much he might hurt the young ones if he stormed off now, he was having little success.

It probably didn’t help that Elladan was still going on the quest. Valar, but he wished he knew why Glorfindel was doing this! It could not be because of one accident so many months ago, surely.

Elladan was startled out of these thoughts by the feel of another mind sliding against his own. Very few of their kin used this form of speech regularly. It was not beyond them, it simply seemed a waste of energy when speaking aloud was so much easier. Elladan was more used to it, of course. The bond he shared with his brother made this their preferred way of talking to one other.

This was not Elrohir though.

‘Elladan,’ Glorfindel spoke, his voice clear and firm even within Elladan’s mind, ‘talk to your brother, please. I am attempting to explain but he is making it extremely difficult.’

‘Can you blame him, Glorfindel?’ Elladan asked in turn, his own mental voice a tad sharper than normal. ‘You have just humiliated him in front of all here and for no reason, as far as we can tell.’

‘It is for a very good reason,’ Glorfindel remarked calmly. ‘If Elrohir would stop throwing his tantrum I would be happy to share it with him.’

‘He’s not likely to calm anytime soon,’ Elladan muttered. ‘He was angry enough about not coming with me to Erebor to begin with. We have been apart more often in the last few months than we have in nearly 3,000 years. Now I am to go on a quest of vital importance and he cannot go with me.’

‘Of course, because what Elrohir wants is the most important consideration,’ Glorfindel said caustically. Elladan could not help an internal wince. When Glorfindel put it like that…

‘Tell your brother,’ Glorfindel instructed Elladan in the same tone, ‘that he is required to guard Sméagol on our return to Rivendell because he has spent the most time with him and so is best positioned to prevent Sméagol escaping us and heading after the ring, in the event that he can no longer resist its call. Any further enlightenment he will have to receive from me when he has stopped sulking.’

With that, Glorfindel was gone. Elladan resisted the urge to sigh. It was going to be a long evening.

***

Elrohir’s rather sudden exit had only paused events briefly. They were in the middle of a crisis, after all, and plans could not be laid aside because someone was upset.

Fíli didn’t really like the part of him that could do that, that could block off his concern for a friend because there were more important things happening, but he did it anyway. He and Kíli had both learnt that sometimes being a Prince meant doing things they did not wish to and they were always there to remind each other what was important.

So, rather than going after Elrohir and trying to find some way of lessening his resentment, Fíli turned his attention to the task of preparing himself for a long, dangerous journey. The elves were ready to offer those who would be travelling anything they might need and Frodo had eagerly accepted the role of go-between, hurrying from place to place to fetch this and that while Fíli, Kíli and the rest of the dwarves went over their gear and made sure all was in order. Fíli was sure that there had not been a hole in his best travelling cloak yesterday, but there was definitely one there now.

‘Fíli,’ Kíli said in a querying tone as they worked, ‘does it seem like Frodo is taking all of this a bit better than you’d expect?’

‘What?’ Fíli asked him. He’d only really heard half of the sentence, caught up in trying to work a nick out of the blade of one of his daggers.

‘Well, it’s just…’ Kíli began, only to be cut off by a loud rap on the door.

‘Come in,’ Fíli called distractedly. Uncle’s head suddenly appeared round the door, searching for a moment before his eyes landed on Kíli.

‘Lad, if we are going to re-forge that sword before we head out, you will need to come now,’ Thorin informed Kíli. Fíli watched his brother drop what he was doing immediately and rise to follow Thorin out of the room.

‘Finish checking my stuff, will you, Fíli?’ Kíli shouted to him as he slammed the door behind him. ‘Thanks!’

Fíli groaned to himself. Twice as much preparation to do. Just what he needed.

***

Sneaking was really a lot easier than he’d thought it would be, Frodo mused to himself as he stored the ‘spares’ he had been collecting in the hollow of a tree not far from their flet. Everybody was so busy bustling from place to place trying to prepare for travel that none of them noticed he was taking more than he really needed.

Well, so he had thought.

‘Strange place to pack your food, lad,’ Uncle Dwalin said easily, not reacting at all to Frodo’s sudden jump and the squeal he gave. ‘I know this elven waybread isn’t up to much, but it won’t do you any good inside that tree.’

‘Uncle Dwalin,’ Frodo began. Then he stopped. Uncle Dwalin knew what he was up to. Frodo could tell just from the look he was being given.

‘So you mean to go with them, do you?’ Uncle Dwalin asked knowingly, eyeing Frodo’s stash and giving a snort of laughter.

‘Yes,’ Frodo said defiantly. ‘If Fíli and Kíli can go with Uncle Bilbo, I can too.’

‘Fíli and Kíli are more than twice your age, Frodo,’ Uncle Dwalin told him. Frodo was confused. Uncle Dwalin didn’t sound mad, but he would be normally. He had caught Frodo doing something Uncle Bilbo would have boxed his ears for. ‘They have also fought battles before.’

‘Everyone has to fight their first battle at some point,’ Frodo argued. ‘How am I supposed to get the experience everyone says I have to have if I never start fighting in the first place?’ He could feel himself scowling, glaring at Uncle Dwalin as he warmed to his subject.

He only glared harder when Uncle Dwalin began to laugh.

‘Hush, pup,’ Uncle Dwalin told him when Frodo started to open his mouth to shout at him. ‘I am not here to stop you, though Mahal knows I’ll regret it when Bilbo and Thorin get hold of me.’

‘You aren’t going to stop me?’ Frodo asked disbelievingly. He couldn’t be that lucky, could he?

‘No, I’m not,’ Uncle Dwalin confirmed. ‘You’re as ready for battle as I can make you,’ he continued, ‘and you took to it a lot better than Bilbo ever did. If you came back to Erebor with us you’d see battle as soon as we marched anyway. We’ll need all the warriors we can get.’

‘So why not make me come back to Erebor?’ Frodo queried. Really, sometimes he thought his own mouth was conspiring against him. Why had he asked that? He didn’t need to give Uncle Dwalin any ideas.

‘Because, Frodo,’ Uncle Dwalin answered seriously, looking him straight in the eye, ‘I am worried about Bilbo. He’s not half as certain about carrying the ring to Mordor as he wants us to think. He had a bad turn when they originally tried to take it off him and it’s knocked him about. If he starts to struggle with it, he’s going to need someone to help him.’

‘Fíli and Kíli,’ Frodo started to say, then bit his lip to stop himself. For Mahal’s sake, Frodo, he thought to himself, shut up!

‘Will do their best,’ Uncle Dwalin said with a nod. ‘They’re good lads, though I try not to tell them so too often. I heard the wizard talking to Galadriel and Elrond yesterday, though. Only a hobbit, he said, one like Bilbo who wants nothing to do with power and wealth, could bear that ring with so few problems. Fíli and Kíli like their shiny things as much as the next dwarf and they were born to power, even if they didn’t have much to do with it for a long time,’ here Uncle Dwalin paused, waiting for Frodo to come to the conclusion himself.

‘I don’t,’ Frodo said softly, ‘and I wasn’t. I just want to fight.’

‘You want to protect your family,’ Uncle Dwalin told him. ‘If the wizard’s right, that will help. It might be crucial. So you’ll go after them, quiet as a mouse, and you’ll be careful. And, when the time comes, you’ll make sure Bilbo has someone there to help him carry the burden he’s chosen.’

‘Yes,’ Frodo said, returning Uncle Dwalin’s direct look with as much seriousness as he could manage, making a promise, ‘I will.’

‘Good lad,’ Uncle Dwalin said gently. Frodo felt his heart swell with pride. Uncle Dwalin didn’t hand out praise unless you’d really earned it.

‘We should go too,’ Merry’s voice added, scaring the life out of Frodo and startling Uncle Dwalin as well. Frodo turned to find that Merry and Pippin had come up to one side, stepping out from behind a tree, so quietly Frodo had never noticed them. ‘Frodo’s not bad at moving quietly, but he’s lost his touch a bit since we were small,’ Merry carried on, giving Frodo a wink that felt so familiar. They had been partners-in-chaos, he and Merry, a long time ago.

‘If you’re going to follow them properly,’ Pippin concluded cheekily, ‘you’re going to need our help. We can help with the ring as well. We want it gone as much as anyone.’

‘Oh, do you?’ Uncle Dwalin questioned them. ‘Why would that be, then?’

‘Because it’s hurt Sméagol,’ Pippin answered, standing as tall as he could. ‘It made him hurt his cousin and it made him ill. We want it gone, so it can’t hurt him anymore.’

‘We want to help Cousin Bilbo, too,’ Merry told Uncle Dwalin, making sure he did not waver under Uncle Dwalin’s stare. ‘He’s family, just like Frodo is. Just because they left for Erebor it doesn’t mean we forgot about them. We did our best to keep them safe from Sméagol until we were sure he wouldn’t hurt them.’

‘I hate to break it to you, lad,’ Uncle Dwalin said dryly, ‘but your friend made a good effort at doing some damage earlier.’

Merry looked down at his feet, shuffling a little, and Uncle Dwalin softened.

‘I don’t suppose either of you have any skill at fighting,’ Uncle Dwalin sighed.

‘Some,’ Pippin said, making an effort to seem cheerful. ‘Strider and Elrohir started teaching us over the winter and on the journey here.’

Uncle Dwalin considered them both for a moment, then looked at Frodo. Frodo drew himself up straighter when he realised that Uncle Dwalin was giving him a say in the decision. He also forced himself to stop and think for a moment. Was this a good idea? They could get hurt, after all. Was it worth the risk to bring them? They would be safer in Lothlórien.

Safer, Frodo decided, but only as long as they agreed to stay and be guarded. He did not think they would stay for long. They had come hundreds of miles from the Shire in the last few months. That took determination and courage, especially for a hobbit.

‘Do you have time to work with them?’ Frodo asked Uncle Dwalin. ‘I know you can’t turn them into warriors in an evening but you could show them a trick or two, couldn’t you? They’d know more than Uncle Bilbo did when you set out from the Shire.’

‘Only too true,’ Dwalin agreed. ‘I can try. We’ll see how good their training has been.’

‘Then you will take us?’ Pippin asked eagerly.

‘You will have to be sensible,’ Frodo told him, trying to mimic Uncle Bilbo’s stern tone. ‘This won’t be a stroll through Buckland.’

‘A stroll through Buckland led us to Sméagol,’ Merry said gravely. ‘We know the risks.’

‘No, lad, I don’t think you really do,’ Uncle Dwalin said, exhaling heavily, ‘but you will learn. We all do, one way or another. Come on then. We have work to do.’

‘I’ll finish getting everything together,’ Frodo told him and Uncle Dwalin nodded, then led the other hobbits away.

So, Frodo would be taking his own fellowship on this journey. That felt… fitting, somehow.

***

No one slept well that night, really, but Merry slept more lightly than most. Knowing that he was going to do something that Lord Elrond and his household would disapprove of kept him awake long into the night, despite the exhaustion of being drilled by Master Dwalin for what felt like an eternity.

The dwarf had declared Merry and Pippin ‘passable’ at the end, which Merry thought was the best they were likely to get. Strider and Elrohir had already drilled the most important lessons into their heads, especially once they had been on the road and an attack was possible. All Master Dwalin had been able to do was add a few tricks that would help hobbit-sized fighters. Strider did not often meet an opponent larger than he was, Merry suspected, so he had never had to worry about fighting upwards.

In his heart, Merry wondered if he and Pippin were doing the right thing. People would be worried when they were found missing, for a start, and they had been treated so well by Lord Elrond and his family that Merry was reluctant to hurt them. He also wasn’t sure that he and Pippin could really help the Fellowship that much. What did they know of great quests and worthy tasks? They had never intended to come this far from the Shire. His parents would be furious when he returned home.

‘Stop worrying, Merry,’ Pippin whispered into the quiet. Merry rolled over and found his cousin staring in his direction through the darkness. To Merry, Pippin was only a shadowy shape in the gloom, but Pippin had the sharper eyes so maybe he could see more.

‘I don’t know how to stop worrying,’ Merry whispered back. ‘What are we doing, Pip?’

‘We’re helping our friends,’ Pippin answered certainly. ‘We’re trying to make a difference, like that Man who’s going with the Fellowship said.’

‘Alnir,’ Merry told him with a no little exasperation. ‘His name was Alnir.’

‘Him,’ Pippin agreed. ‘We have to try, Merry.’

‘Do we?’ Merry asked pensively. His mind kept turning everything over and over and he felt as if he had changed his opinion half a dozen times during the night.

‘So what do you think we should do?’ Pippin questioned him. ‘Go home? Back to the Shire and safety?’

‘I don’t know,’ was the only answer Merry could give. ‘I don’t know, Pip.’

‘I do,’ Pippin said, his voice firm once more. ‘We go with Frodo. We help him however we can. Maybe we won’t be the ones to save Middle Earth, Merry. Maybe Frodo won’t, either, but he’s going to try. He’s going to go after Bilbo and he’s going to help him however he can. We will too. Bilbo and Strider and Elladan and all the others. Going home to hide in the Shire won’t help anyone but us. Nor will hiding in Lothlórien.’

‘I think Arwen would wash your mouth out if you suggested she was hiding,’ Merry pointed out. He thought Pippin was right though. Merry needed to stop second guessing himself and remember why he had stepped out of hiding to talk to Frodo and Master Dwalin earlier. Maybe his part wouldn’t a big one. Maybe it would be very short. He would try though. They had to try.

***

Morning appeared only moments after Frodo’s head had hit the pillow, or so he felt anyway. In the end he hadn’t got to bed until very late. The dwarves had gathered together after they had readied all they could, drinking and talking well after the sun had gone down. No one had wanted to be the first to turn in. No one had wanted to be the first to say goodbye.

Frodo had sat next to Uncle Bilbo for hours, squirming inwardly as his uncle had tried his best to comfort Frodo about being left behind, to tell Frodo all the things he wanted him to know if Uncle Bilbo didn’t come back.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ Uncle Bilbo had murmured to him, hugging Frodo tightly before they went to bed. ‘I have always been so proud of you, Frodo. You’re the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.’

‘I love you,’ Frodo had forced himself to whisper in return. ‘Be safe.’

‘I will, lad,’ Bilbo had responded as he released Frodo. ‘The boys will take care of me, I’m sure.’

So will I, Frodo had thought desperately. I won’t let anything hurt you, especially not that stupid ring.

Fíli and Kíli had also come to say goodbye, pretending that nothing was wrong but each giving Frodo a hug of their own. They had left early in the morning, before sunrise, with Lady Galadriel and Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship, headed for the southern edge of Lothlórien.

Now Uncle Thorin and the others were busily finishing final checks of their ponies, weapons and packs, distracted by the maelstrom of dwarves, elves and men all doing the same thing. Frodo was watching from the edge of the clearing, pretending to check his own gear over one more time, even though he knew that it was perfectly fine. It was as he looked up, scanning the area to make sure that no one was watching him, that Uncle Dwalin caught his eye.

 _Go_ , Uncle Dwalin signed in Iglishmêk, _I will make sure they don’t notice_.

Frodo took a deep breath and nodded, with no idea how similar he looked to Uncle Bilbo in that moment. As quietly as he could, Frodo walked away from the others, forcing himself not to look around or act at all suspiciously. He could do this. He was ready.

The further he walked, the quieter his surroundings. After a while he stopped at his hiding place, gathering the extra supplies he had stored there. Then he started moving again, grateful beyond measure that there was no one around to see him.

Another few minutes passed before Merry and Pippin joined him. They had had the more difficult job, Frodo thought. They had no reason to be prepared for a journey, or to be travelling away from the flets of Caras Galadhon.

‘We need to keep moving,’ Merry told Frodo under his breath as he unburdened Frodo of some of the supplies. ‘We told Arwen we were going to explore the parts of the forest we hadn’t seen yet but if she gets worried they’ll come looking for us.’

‘Then we need to be as quiet as we can,’ Frodo answered, even though they knew that as well as he did. The two of them nodded and followed him almost soundlessly. Merry was right, Frodo realised. They were quieter than he was.

Frodo had been worried that they would have problems following the Fellowship, having no idea where they were going except south. Luckily, however, the Fellowship had not been too concerned about covering their tracks when they were still in Lothlórien. The trail was clear enough.

Hours passed in the same way, no conversation except the occasional whispered exchange about which way they should go. At one point they reached the river running through the wood. Ferries like the ones at Buckleberry waited on both sides of the water and Merry managed to navigate their way across.

It was mid-afternoon before they heard a sound and Frodo had been wondering whether the planned diversion had actually gone ahead. He wasn’t sure how far they were from the edge of the forest and didn’t know whether he should be able to hear anything or not.

All three of them had come to a halt at the sound of bells jingling, standing uselessly in the middle of a path until Merry came to his senses and pulled them both into some bushes, ducking low so they couldn’t be seen. After a moment Frodo crawled carefully forward, stomach to the ground, and parted some leaves so that he could see.

Before him was Lady Galadriel, along with some of her guards, returning from seeing the Fellowship on their way. Frodo let the leaves move back into place, making sure he was hidden from view, and held his breath. He hoped with all his being that the elves were not paying too much attention to what was around them. They should feel safe within their own borders, shouldn’t they? There was no need for them to stop.

Luck was with them. The party moved on, the jingling of the bells on Galadriel’s reins grew fainter, and finally Frodo could hear nothing at all. He stayed still for a minute or two more, just to be safe.

‘They’re gone,’ Pippin said behind him and Frodo turned to see that the younger hobbit was crouching, peering over the top of the bushes. ‘Come on, we need to go. If she’s coming back they must already have left.’

‘I wish we knew how far we are from the edge of the forest,’ Merry muttered. Frodo refrained from pointing out that he did too.

‘We’ll find out if we keep walking,’ Frodo said instead. ‘Let’s go.’

***

It didn’t take long after that, really. Only another hour or so of travel, which made Frodo wonder how long Galadriel had lingered at the edge of the forest after seeing the Fellowship off. His first impulse was to carry straight on without stopping, but Pippin’s rumbling stomach reminded Frodo that they’d had nothing to eat since breakfast.

‘Quickly,’ he told Merry and Pippin as he pulled some of the elvish bread out of his pack.

‘Not going to be a problem,’ Pippin answered through a mouthful of crumbs, already gobbling a piece down.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ Merry scolded him before hastily eating his own piece. When they had finished they all looked at the pack, then at each other. Then they each grabbed one more piece, ate it quickly, brushed off the crumbs and stepped foot outside of Lothlórien.

Immediately sounds could be heard, as if someone had previously had a scarf tied over Frodo’s ears and now it had been removed. No wonder he hadn’t heard anything earlier, Frodo thought. He could have been less than a mile from a major battle and he wouldn’t have heard a thing.

‘They’ll have continued south towards Fangorn Forest,’ Merry said, drawing close to Frodo. ‘Going east would be too dangerous this close to Dol Guldur.’

‘Then we go south as well,’ Frodo answered, hitching the strap of his pack higher onto his shoulder. ‘They can’t be that far ahead of us.’

******


	11. Fractures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of Lothlorien is done and all are on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for any comments and kudos. Seeing what people think of the chapters is the best part of writing and always makes me eager to get back to the story, so I appreciate all the feedback a lot.
> 
> Just on a random note: in this story Merry and Frodo are about the same age. I know that isn't canon, but I decided at the beginning that if I could put them in a different era then I could probably play with the ages a little :)

Chapter Ten: Fractures

‘Dwalin!’ Thorin called out. Dwalin could see his King scanning their group to assess their readiness. He would not move them out until Dwalin was satisfied, though. They had been together so many years that these routines were long-established.

Thorin would murder him when he found out what Dwalin had done. Dwalin could almost feel the sword blow swinging towards his neck. He’d never thought that the trust between them was a fragile thing, but it felt so now. He wondered if he’d broken it beyond repair.

Not that Dwalin would allow Thorin to tell him he’d been wrong. Frodo had every right to choose his path, just as they had chosen theirs years ago. The exiles of Erebor had made their way however they could and their children had grown up quickly. Especially their princes. It had not been an ideal life, but then Dwalin did not deal in ideals. Only in practicalities.

Most likely that wouldn’t save him from Bilbo either, but he’d face that when it came.

Either way, it was done, and right now there was a more urgent problem to contend with.

 _Go_ , he signed to Thorin, as he’d signed to Frodo not long ago, and Thorin shouted the order. Even as the dwarves began to move, Thranduil, Elrond and Bain gave the same commands to their own people. Dwalin made sure his pony’s reins were in one hand and Keeper in the other.

The elves and men on their horses might outrun the dwarves easily, but that was fine. When they finally faced the orcs there would be plenty for everyone.

***

‘We are with you until the ford!’ Thorin heard Thranduil cry to Elrond as they began to move. Elrond’s firm nod was the last thing Thorin saw before he turned to face the treeline. They had massed right at the border of the wood, wanting to give the orcs plenty to focus on before the Fellowship even made it across the border of Lothlórien. The dwarves were at the head of the party, as Thorin and his fellow leaders had agreed, so that they could gain as much of a lead as possible. Thorin knew Thranduil and Elrond too well to believe that they would leave his people behind, but reality could make a mess of even the best plans.

As soon as they were out of the trees Thorin could see what had made Haldir and the other scouts so nervous. The horde of orcs on the far bank were a solid mass leading all the way down the river as far as Thorin’s eyes could see. As Thorin’s group came into view the orcs started up a raucous cry, a challenge perhaps, or maybe just obscenities that amused them. Thorin didn’t particularly care which. Either way the plan remained the same.

He broke left almost as soon as he was on open ground, leading his people north towards the ford that would allow them to cross and head for Mirkwood. They would have to ford the River Gladden to get there, but the orcs had the entirety of the Anduin between them and their prey so Thorin thought his people still had the advantage. Glancing to one side Thorin noticed that some of the orcs had already broken ranks, charging down the riverbank to try and get ahead of the dwarves. Others, the stupid ones most likely, threw themselves into the river and tried to wade across. Thorin heard the roars of their commanders and laughed to himself, thanking Mahal for the stupidity of his enemies.

‘Do not thank me yet, King under the Mountain,’ Mahal murmured inside his head, sounding almost as if he were whispering for some odd reason. ‘The orcs are the smallest of your problems.’

Thorin did not bother to ask what his creator was talking about. He had tightened his hands instinctively on the reins at the unexpected appearance of that voice and his pony, well-trained as it was, had immediately slowed. Thorin kicked his mount back into a gallop and turned his head to look to one side again. If they had a bigger problem than the orcs then he should be able to see it.

Behind him Thorin heard elven horns, Elrond and then Thranduil sounding their call to arms. For Thorin the sound was all but drowned out by the thundering of hooves, but he heard an answering roar from across the river. Good, that had the orcs’ attention firmly on his party, which was exactly where they needed it. More and more of the orcs were on the move now. The one Captain that Thorin could see was lashing out with a whip, driving the orcs to follow the dwarves’ path.

So far everything was going to plan.

Then a shrieking cry was heard, so piercing and overwhelming that Thorin had to fight the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. His pony reared, whinnying its own distress, and Thorin forced himself to concentrate on nothing but keeping the animal calm and moving. Behind him he heard a crash of metal and a scream low enough in pitch that it could only be dwarven. Straining his head around Thorin tried desperately to see who had fallen, but he could not control the pony and look at the same time.

‘Keep moving,’ Thorin heard a familiar voice yell, an authoritative tone to the words which was clearly copied from Balin. ‘I said _move_!’ Ori continued at full volume. ‘The elves will get Munân, you just concentrate on staying on.’ Whoever Ori was shouting at must have obeyed for the shouting stopped. Thorin spared a prayer for Munân, one of the youngest of Dwalin’s hand-chosen Royal Guard, but kept his concentration on the ground ahead.

Then that horrific, piercing cry sounded again, sending a pain like shards of metal through Thorin’s ears and bringing all the hair on the back of his neck upright in an instant. This time Thorin could tell that the noise was also coming from across the river. When he looked, making sure his hands stayed steady as the rock of Erebor so that he would not lose control of the pony, Thorin saw eight black-cloaked riders upon jet black horses forging a path through the shallow water along the edge of the river. They were coming from south and Thorin could only assume that they had crossed where the river was not so deep. Unlike the orcs they did not have to fight the current and were advancing rapidly. Even a brief glance left Thorin with cold shivers as he realised that these must be the Nazgûl mentioned at the Council.

‘Elrond, ride ahead,’ Glorfindel shouted from behind. Moments later Elrond, Elrohir and a small group of elves shot past Thorin, easily outdistancing the rest of the party and continuing the illusion that they had something to protect. Thorin snarled with frustration at not being able to see what was happening properly and swerved to one side, looping back and praying that he had not just doomed himself to a collision with another rider. The circuit he made, brief though it was, allowed him to see that Glorfindel had charged along the river’s edge, the great white steed he rode rearing and whinnying a challenge as he pulled it to a halt some distance from the Riders.

Glorfindel himself cried out in the elven tongue, answered by one of the Riders, who drew his sword and continued to make his way along the river, though his horse occasionally slipped on the silt and pebbles that lined the river. Thorin saw Glorfindel draw his own weapon, then lost sight of him as he dodged his own people to reach the head of the party again. His brief look had been enough to reassure him that, while the Riders had focused entirely on Glorfindel, the orcs were continuing to follow the party’s progress and the land to the south was beginning to clear.

Now all they had to do was survive this charge.

***

Elves did not quail at the sight of evil. Nor did they leave their companions to face said evil alone, no matter how much they might wish that others had a sense of self-preservation. Glorfindel might have brought his possible doom upon himself by posturing at the riverbank but that did not mean that Thranduil would abandon him to his fate.

So, rather than following the sensible course and allowing Tári to make for home as quickly as possible, Thranduil turned him to join his friend and signalled for the five members of his Guard to do the same. There were worse ways to die than trying to defeat a Nazgûl, he supposed.

When Thranduil drew alongside his friend, Glorfindel turned to him with the gleeful smile he always wore when he was about to do something utterly ridiculous.

‘It has been some time since we have had a battle of such consequence, has it not?’ Glorfindel asked him. Thranduil gave him a look which could have withered a sapling in an instant.

‘Some of us,’ he emphasised, ‘do not need to risk life and limb in order to enjoy ourselves.’

‘Some of us are no fun at all,’ Glorfindel responded, rolling his eyes and turning to see how the flight of the rest of their party was going.

‘Were I you, I would keep my eyes more firmly fixed on the Nazgûl I had just challenged,’ Thranduil responded with some urgency. The Riders had slowed their charge as the ground proved treacherous, but they were not fools. They had now forced their mounts out of the water and up onto dry land and their pace was quickening once more.

‘It is not as if the Nazgûl are going anywhere,’ Glorfindel said airily, still looking to the north. ‘I should think you would be more concerned about the orcs chasing our diversion. Our forces are outrunning them, by the way. All of our allies will be miles from here by the time they must do battle.’

‘Which is not something that can be said about your new friends,’ Thranduil pointed out. ‘Glorfindel, could you at least _pretend_ to care that they are nearly upon us?’ If this last question was less even than Thranduil might have preferred, he thought he could probably be forgiven. The Nazgûl would soon be within bowshot and all but one of them were still mounted. The eighth had lost its horse when part of the riverbank had crumbled, to a broken leg if Thranduil was any judge, but continued its advance regardless.

‘Ah,’ Glorfindel said calmly, finally turning around. ‘It took them long enough. I was beginning to think we would be here all month.’

Thranduil heard one of his escort give a bark of laughter and shook his head slightly. He was surrounded by fools and lunatics. He would have been better off with Thorin. Thorin, whose idea of a good battle plan was charging a dragon. What had his life come to, that these were his choice of companions?

‘My lord, do we try to force them back?’ Amras, Tauriel’s second-in-command asked him, voice level and hand impressively steady considering the foe they were discussing. If they survived, Thranduil would ensure that Tauriel commended him.

‘No,’ Thranduil answered. ‘If Glorfindel wishes for a glorious charge he may make it alone. Pull back a way now. Better to have solid ground beneath us.’

‘I will survive without a glorious charge,’ Glorfindel responded, smiling at Thranduil serenely. ‘No doubt if we attack Mordor Elrond will allow me to make one then. For now, let us give these servants of Sauron something to keep them occupied.’

By the time the Nazgûl were within bowshot Thranduil was no longer fearful. He had long since learned to make his peace with his potential demise and that was the worst that could happen. Rather than worrying himself with what he could not change, Thranduil had ordered his group to fire upon the Nazgûl mounts as soon as they were in range. By the time the Riders drew closer they were down to four horses and were hastening to get close enough to make archery impossible.

Now Thranduil struck his first blow as swiftly as he could, once more aiming not at the Rider but at the horse. Dirty tactics, perhaps, but war was rarely a clean affair.

The horse was normal enough to feel pain, shying back from Thranduil’s blade and then rearing when the pressure upon its injured leg caused it discomfort. Thranduil could sense the others battling around him; the cry as Tamuríl took a blow to her side and then fell, another equine shriek as Amras’ slice slit the throat of one of the horses. That one caught its rider beneath its body as it fell and the Rider was trampled under the hooves of another black mount within seconds. Not dead, Thranduil knew, but incapacitated was good enough.

Ducking the swing of a Morgul blade, and losing a hank of hair in the process, Valar curse it, Thranduil brought his blade around and slashed at the opposite leg of his opponent’s mount. He managed only a glancing blow as the Rider reined sharply to one side and almost immediately Thranduil was forced to parry another strike. He was boundlessly grateful for the sword that had come down to him from his father, forged in Doriath and enchanted with all the protection their smiths had been able to muster. The flat of the blade held strong where others might have failed and Thranduil was able to turn the sword to slice back at the Nazgûl itself. The move held it back long enough for another of Thranduil’s guard to take the horse’s legs out from under it and then the Nazgul was at a disadvantage.

Lairen was not so fortunate. His blade shattered with the force of his opponent’s swing and, with nothing left to defend himself, he took a wound across the arm. Amras swung his horse sideways and shoved the Nazgul and its mount with all the force he could muster, thrusting his way between Lairen and his opponent. Lairen quickly retreated to the back of the group, clutching at his arm as his face went grey and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Remembering Ori’s injury after the orc attack on the Woodland Realm Thranduil cursed again.

‘Lairen, ride for Lórien,’ he commanded at full volume, thankful that Lairen had the sense to follow the order. Even as the guard galloped for the trees, however, another horn call could be heard and Celeborn led a small mounted party out of the wood. The Lord of Lothlórien made straight for the battle and the Riders all paused at the sound of the horn. Suddenly, without a word, they fled towards the river, causing Thranduil to reconsider his earlier estimation of their intelligence. How were they planning to get across, exactly?

‘Are they actually going to try to swim across the river?’ Glorfindel asked incredulously. Even the Rider who had been caught under his mount had managed to work his way free and was rushing after his companions as they plunged heedlessly into the water.

‘So it would seem,’ Thranduil replied shortly, for his attention had been drawn elsewhere. He crouched at Tamuríl’s side and felt for her pulse. It was gone, as he had thought it would be. A growl of frustration rose in Thranduil’s throat as he gently closed her eyes. Had he not stayed to fight… Thranduil forced the thought aside. Recriminations would not revive her.

Nienna moved to join him, bowing slightly to Thranduil as she knelt next to her friend. Two of Celeborn’s fighters also approached, one mounted and the other on foot, and together the three gathered Tamuríl up and set her body in front of the mounted Lórien elf. Thranduil stood and nodded at the rider’s assurance that they would do all that was necessary.

‘They have not regained their full power yet,’ Celeborn said, still considering the flight of the Riders though his tone was softer in respect for Tamuríl’s sacrifice and the grief of her companions. ‘If they had then they would not have fled.’

Even as the elves watched the Nazgûl floundered and went under. Thranduil could only assume they would be washed downstream. It was hardly the best option, for it took them far too close to the Fellowship, but they were now without any means of travelling save their own feet. If Nazgûl had feet. Thranduil could feel a headache coming on, a vice tightening around his brow. Either way, they could only hope that they had bought the Fellowship enough time to get ahead before the Nazgûl managed to pull themselves out of the river.

‘Your Majesty, at the risk of stating the obvious,’ Amras interjected, ‘there were only eight.’

‘There were,’ Thranduil agreed, focusing on his other main worry. ‘Which begs the question of where their leader was. For I do not believe he was here.’

‘He was not,’ Glorfindel concurred, voice solemn. ‘That is the only thing that does concern me. For if he was not here, then where was he?’

‘Perhaps ahead,’ Celeborn pointed out. ‘In which case you should hurry to catch the others. The more hands they have in that battle the better.’

‘And if he was behind?’ Amras asked anxiously.

‘Then Gandalf will have to deal with whatever arises,’ Celeborn replied. ‘There is little we can do about it now. You must continue on, Thranduil.’

‘Lairen…’ Thranduil began, but Celeborn cut him off.

‘Your guard will be seen to,’ Celeborn assured him. ‘We will bring him with us when we meet you in Gondor. Go now, they will need you.’

Thranduil knew the truth in that too well to argue further. Sheathing his sword and brushing the short section of hair behind his ear, hoping that would keep it out of his face, he wheeled his mount around and set off. His guard followed and Glorfindel drew abreast in moments, no longer smiling. They had a long ride ahead of them.

***

The plan was working well enough, Thorin thought. They had ridden as far as they could as fast as they could, before being forced to slow so that the ponies would not founder. The elves and men had indeed outpaced the dwarves but they had pulled up to a trot earlier and so had given Thorin’s party time to catch them. The orcs had lagged behind early on, despite having spread themselves so far down the river and were out of Thorin’s sight. Elrond had sent riders back the way they had come to ensure that they were still being pursued, but Thorin did not believe the orcs had given up their chase. Not when they had been so eager to begin it.

What had happened with the Nazgûl was a question that nagged at Thorin even now, but he tried to put it from his mind. He could do nothing regardless. Instead, Thorin cast his eyes across his party to check that all was well. Munân was pale and still but one of Elrond’s elves had managed to retrieve him and had assured Thorin that he yet lived. Whether he would ever fight again was less certain.

Still gazing around and assessing the state of the dwarves who followed him, Thorin slowly became aware that he had not seen Frodo for some time. A _long_ time. In fact, Thorin realised, he hadn’t seen Frodo since before they left Lothlórien. Turning his pony in a swift circle, Thorin surveyed everyone he could see but there was still no sign. Had one of the elves taken Frodo up onto their horse? Where was his pony? Maybe it had not been able to keep up, but then one of the others would have taken him, surely?

‘Dwalin!’ Thorin roared, panic growing as his searching yielded no result.

‘He’s not here,’ Dwalin suddenly announced as he drew his horse up alongside Thorin. Thorin felt his entire body turn to ice in an instant.

‘What do you mean, he’s not here?’ Thorin demanded. ‘Where is he? You were supposed to keep an eye on him!’

‘And I did,’ Dwalin said without any hint of anxiety. Thorin did not find that calming. If Dwalin had been watching Frodo then why was he not here? ‘I kept an eye on him in Lothlórien, as he gathered supplies and planned to go after Bilbo, and then I watched him do so before we left this morning.’

‘You did _what_?’ Thorin snarled, voice low and, though he did not know it, deadly. He levelled the fiercest glare he could manage at Dwalin and felt the ice in his blood replaced by fire as Dwalin simply stared back.

‘I sent Frodo after Bilbo,’ Dwalin repeated, sounding completely unaffected.

‘You sent,’ Thorin said slowly, voice still low, ‘Frodo, who is _only just past his majority_ after Bilbo on a _quest to Mordor_. That is what you are telling me?’

‘It is,’ Dwalin replied calmly. Thorin could feel his whole body shaking with rage. His fists clenched as he prepared to throw himself at Dwalin and force that calm expression off his face. He could feel himself rising in the stirrups when suddenly Elrond drew near.

‘Thorin, I have just had word from Galadriel,’ he pronounced, as if messages from fifty miles away without a messenger to bring them were entirely normal. ‘Merry and Pippin are not to be found.’

‘Nor is Frodo,’ Thorin informed him, growling the words as he continued glaring at Dwalin. ‘Dwalin thought it would be an excellent idea to allow him to chase after Bilbo.’

‘Merry and Pippin went with him,’ Dwalin stated. Elrond’s slight frown deepened instantly.

‘After Bilbo?’ Elrond asked incredulously. ‘Why would they do such a thing?’

‘It is their world as much as it is ours,’ Dwalin answered. ‘They wished to save it, just as we do.’

‘It is hardly a fit quest for children, Dwalin,’ Elrond retorted. ‘They are far too young.’

‘Not so much younger than Ori and the lads when we retook Erebor,’ Dwalin replied, still entirely calm despite the disgust being aimed at him from the two leaders. ‘Older, in fact, than we were when we fought in battles against orcs, Thorin. They are adults, they had the right.’

‘Pippin not adult,’ Sméagol said, entering the conversation abruptly. Thorin had forgotten he was there, huddled as he was within Elrond’s cloak. ‘Pippin still a tween.’ Dwalin’s composure fractured slightly for the first time.

‘A tween?’ he asked, looking at Sméagol alone. ‘I did not know that. What was he doing outside the Shire if he’s not an adult?’

‘We was only going to Rivendell,’ Sméagol told him. ‘Then we was coming here because Merry and Pippin not leave us alone. We all supposed to go back together.’

At this Sméagol looked up at Elrond, who returned his gaze gravely.

‘I am sorry, Sméagol,’ the Elven Lord said quietly. ‘I told you they would be safe and now they have got themselves into trouble regardless. Arwen is frantic.’

‘Do we go back?’ Thorin questioned Elrond, though he knew the answer in his heart. Elrond only confirmed it.

‘We cannot go back,’ he was told. ‘It is imperative that the orcs have no reason to go south. If we turn around now they are bound to wonder what is so important that it has changed our course.’

Thorin nodded heavily, feeling as if he were weighed down by granite. Risking Bilbo and the boys had been bad enough. Frodo as well, and the two young hobbits, one of them still a child, for Mahal’s sake! He had promised Bilbo he would keep Frodo safe. He could not have failed any more spectacularly if he had tried.

Kicking his pony into a canter Thorin headed for the front of the column. Dwalin had best stay well out of his way until they reached Erebor. Even after they reached Erebor, in fact. If his Captain of the Guard had proven so untrustworthy, perhaps it was time he found a new one.

******

 


	12. Loyal Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ties of friendship might just help them save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are still reading after the long wait - thank you so much! I would not have blamed you for assuming I had fallen off the face of the earth. I hope it will be worth the wait.
> 
> The title is adapted from a line in 'Gollum's Song'.

Chapter Eleven: Loyal Friends

‘Remind me again why we decided we should do this journey on foot?’ Alnir muttered to Sigrid as they tramped across the Field of Celebrant around mid-afternoon. They had stopped only once since they began walking early that morning and apparently the tedium was beginning to get to him.

‘We are trying to be subtle,’ Sigrid responded simply. ‘A party galloping along on horseback is not subtle.’

‘I did not say we had to gallop,’ Alnir informed her. ‘I would be content with a trot. Or walking, even. As long as the horse was doing it and I wasn’t.’

‘Feeling the effects of a sedentary lifestyle, Master Alnir?’ Elladan queried. Sigrid could feel her temper rise even from so simple a comment. She and the elf were not going to get along, she could tell. She had only met him a few times and they had never before had much chance to talk. Now she was thankful for that fact. He was a truly irritating individual.

Luckily for the Fellowship, Alnir was a far more easygoing sort than Sigrid and very little fazed him. Including being mocked by arrogant elves.

‘I am, Master Elladan,’ Alnir agreed cheerfully. ‘My brother keeps me shackled to a desk all day. This walking is just too much for me!’

This was met by sniggers of laughter from all those present who actually knew Eric. They were aware he had long-since decided that life was far more peaceful when Alnir was kept far away from anything involving the rule of Lake-town. Sigrid was almost certain that the main reason Eric had sent Alnir to Lothlórien was to get his brother out of his hair.

‘Your ill-treatment at his hands is truly shameful,’ Kíli said with exaggerated sympathy and Sigrid could not help laughing along. She did love these people and their absurdity. Well, most of them.

‘I’m missing something, aren’t I?’ Elladan asked the group at large with a smile. That was one point in his favour, at least. He did not seem to mind being teased.

‘Let us say only that my decision to teach Alnir swordplay was probably for the best,’ Legolas put in then, returning the smile.

‘It is my only talent,’ Alnir expounded mournfully. ‘Without it I would be utterly useless.’

‘Whether you are useful even with it has yet to be determined, Alnir,’ Gandalf commented. Alnir forced a shocked, hurt expression onto his face and Gandalf shook his head knowingly. ‘Are you not a little old for all this playacting by now?’ the wizard asked.

‘Fíli and Kíli continue to act like dwarflings and they are much older than Alnir,’ Bilbo contributed. ‘I fear we will simply have to live with it, Gandalf.’

‘Hmmm,’ was Gandalf’s only response. He eyed Alnir with enough calculation that Alnir actually began to look sincerely nervous.

‘If he starts casting spells then I am throwing you in his path,’ Alnir told Sigrid with a hint of anxiety.

‘Not if you value your life, you won’t,’ Bofur replied before Sigrid could say anything. ‘Bifur would see you pay for it.’

Sigrid felt herself tense unwillingly and cursed the reaction. She was too old for such stupidity. Far too old to still be feeling these pangs of hurt when Bofur made it clear that his care for her was for Bifur’s sake. She wished fervently that it had been Bifur who had joined the quest, then cursed herself again for being selfish. Bifur was married now, with little ones he adored. She would not drag him on a dangerous journey just to make her own life easier.

She felt a touch upon her arm and looked over to see Alnir giving her an understanding smile, even as Bofur’s attention was drawn to some other discussion. For one moment, Sigrid allowed her hurt to show on her face, confident that Alnir would understand. Her little brother, in heart if not by blood, and the only one she had ever actually told about how she felt.

He had been fifteen, rejected by the first girl to truly catch his fancy and certain he would die of the heartbreak. At five and twenty Sigrid had found his dramatic declaration amusing and had been fairly sure it was embarrassment breaking his heart rather than rejection. Even so, she had sat with him as he poured out his woes to a listening ear, before reassuring him that broken hearts did not kill you, even if you sometimes wanted them to. Even now she was not sure exactly why she had given him a full explanation rather than leaving it at that, but she had never regretted it. Especially not at times like this, when he comforted her or stepped in to shield her while she recovered her composure.

‘Alright?’ he asked her, returning to the quiet tone he had used at the beginning of the whole episode.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she reassured him, trying to make her smile as genuine as possible. ‘It was only a few words spoken in jest. I need to get a thicker skin, that’s all.’

‘Or a muzzle for him,’ Alnir suggested, smiling innocently in the face of her glare. It did not last long anyway. Soon she began to laugh at the image.

‘He would not be Bofur if he thought before he spoke more than half the time,’ Sigrid concluded. ‘If that is the worst thing he says on this quest then we should count ourselves lucky.’

‘True enough,’ Alnir answered. Then he looked away once more, ignoring the babble of voices off to one side, and his eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance.

‘Sigrid, do you see that?’

‘See wha…,’ she began to say instinctively, before she realised it was obvious what he was talking about. A black figure on a black horse, galloping towards them from the east.

‘Gandalf!’ Sigrid called instead, pulling her daggers from their sheaths. ‘We have company.’

‘Valar above,’ she heard Elladan say almost immediately, followed by low curses from Fíli and Kíli. Bilbo made a slight gasping noise that had Fíli reaching for him, catching him as he bent over and clasped at his neck.

‘It’s burning,’ Bilbo said hoarsely. ‘Gandalf, the ring burns!’

Looking at the approaching figure, Gandalf frowned mightily as he drew Glamdring. ‘That is the Witch-King. All of you, towards the forest now. _Quickly_!’

‘Gandalf, what are you going to do?’ Fíli asked worriedly even as he pulled Bilbo forward until the hobbit began to run. Fangorn Forest was still miles away and Sigrid knew that they would not make it in time. Apparently Gandalf was more optimistic.

‘For now,’ Gandalf replied, ‘I am going to hope that the forest will give us cover. Move faster.’

‘I am moving as fast as I can,’ Bilbo complained breathlessly.

‘Bilbo, I really am very sorry,’ Legolas said sincerely, right before he scooped the hobbit up off the ground and lengthened his stride. Sigrid saw Elladan contemplating Kíli at the same moment that Kíli spotted him.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Kíli warned the elf as he picked up his pace yet again.

‘Too late for that,’ Elladan pointed out, but he did nothing more. Sigrid found herself extremely glad for the fact that Dale sat most of the way up a mountain. Scaling the surrounding area on patrol made this sprint easier than it might have been. She was very impressed with Gandalf’s speed. Clearly the wizard was not as aged as he appeared.

With all the will in the world, however, a group running on foot was never going to outrun a rider. The Witch-King gained on them and Sigrid could feel terror fighting to take hold. It was no natural fear, she was sure. Battle frightened her, as it did all people with good sense in Sigrid’s opinion, but not like this. This was a terror that sought to numb her mind and her body. It pushed down on her even as she ran and she could see Alnir struggling as well. Fíli shook his head sharply every few steps, as if trying to rid his mind of a thought, and Kíli was almost snarling, teeth gritted as he continued to run. 

The elves seemed unaffected, which was highly unfair, but maybe they were just better at hiding it. The others Sigrid could not see. 

As the feeling grew so strong that it was almost impossible to ignore, Sigrid lost the battle with instinct and turned to look over her shoulder. The Witch-King was far too close for comfort, which became an even greater problem when Sigrid stumbled and nearly fell. A strong arm caught her as she tripped and held firm as she regained her footing whilst trying to keep moving. A glance to her side showed that her rescuer was the man she had exchanged barely two words with, the heir to Gondor’s throne.

‘Thank you,’ Sigrid said hurriedly as she tried to speed up again. His answer never came for then the Witch-King was upon them and they were forced to turn and face him.

‘My Master will reclaim the One,’ the Witch-King rasped out as he approached, eyes fixed on Gandalf. ‘Give it up now and perhaps you will survive what comes.’

‘Your Master would not spare me if I handed him the One Ring on bended knee,’ Gandalf replied, standing tall and seemingly fearless before the Nazgûl. ‘You will win yourself no battles with such a claim.’

The Witch-King looked around at the Fellowship and laughed, a grating noise that made Sigrid wish she could clap her hands over her ears. Valar, if he had sounded like that when he was a King of Men it was a wonder they had not killed him just to silence him. 

‘What battle would I have here?’ he asked mockingly. ‘If this is how you hope to claim yourself a throne, Gandalf the Grey, you will be easily defeated.’ 

‘What makes you think we go to claim a throne at all?’ Fíli spoke, moving to stand beside Gandalf. ‘What makes you think the ring is with us? Kings and Lords left Lothlórien today, bound for their own homes, and only this small group headed south. Perhaps we are a distraction, meant to draw you hence and keep you from those who bear the ring away.’

The Witch-King laughed again, like a door hinge that badly needed oiling.

‘A fair attempt, dwarf,’ he responded, ‘but the Nazgûl know the feel of the One.’

‘Really?’ Bofur drawled suddenly, joining Fíli and drawing the Witch-King’s gaze. Sigrid wondered if the Nazgul would notice the way that Gandalf was withdrawing towards where Kíli stood gesturing sharply, but he seemed unaware. ‘That would be why the rest of your ugly little band chased after Lord Elrond then? They knew the ring was with him and followed it? After all, if you were so certain that the ring was here surely you would have brought them with you rather than come alone.’

There was no expression to read under the black shroud, in the empty hood where a face should be, but even so Sigrid felt that the Witch-King had been surprised by the statement. He recovered quickly, though, moving to loom over Bofur and drawing his blade. 

‘I will not be fooled by any get of Aulë,’ the Nazgûl sneered. ‘Your baseless claims mean nothing.’

‘The stone does not make false claims,’ Bofur responded, appearing calm and speaking in an insolent tone Sigrid had rarely heard from him. Panic clawed at her and she tried to inch forward, hoping desperately that she would reach him if the Witch-King attacked. ‘She knows what has passed this day. They chased the ring up the river and faced the elves when they blocked the path. Your pet crows fell before the elves and fled into water, though what else became of them she could not say.’

‘You lie,’ the Witch-King snarled furiously.

‘He does not,’ Aragorn interrupted before the Witch-King could speak further. ‘The land tells the story as clear as day. If you have not the wit to hear it, then that is no fault of ours.’

‘Enough!’ the Witch-King roared, causing Sigrid to tighten her grip on her blades. ‘You will all die and then my Master shall have that which he seeks.’

‘It won’t be us doing the dying,’ Kíli answered. Then, as the Witch-King turned to look at him, he and Legolas loosed shots simultaneously, two burning arrows fired right into the Witch-King’s hood. As they did so Gandalf cried aloud in a tongue Sigrid did not recognise and the small flames lit into a blaze that consumed the cloak the Witch-King wore.

The black-cloaked figure shrieked in fury, and possibly pain, nearly unseated as the horse panicked at the smell of smoke and flames so close. It bolted forward, heading straight for them, but Elladan was ready for it, shouting and running forward to spook it so that it veered off. Within moments it was galloping away from them, the Witch-King still ablaze and trying to put himself out. The horse was heading roughly in the direction of the river, and Sigrid wondered if he would reach it before the flames consumed him.

‘If only conquering such evil were that easy,’ Legolas said as they watched the horse’s path. His body was still tense and Sigrid knew that he was keeping himself ready in case the Witch-King turned back to them.

‘That won’t be enough?’ Alnir asked, a few of the Fellowship murmuring in agreement. ‘He was burning up. Literally.’

‘If all it took were some flames he would have been dispatched years ago,’ Gandalf told them heavily. ‘No, he will not die of this. There is no body within that shroud. Merely a presence. It is a powerful presence, but not as powerful as it will be if Sauron regains his power. We have not seen the last of the Witch-King, mark my words. 

‘Wonderful,’ Fíli said morosely. Most of the group seemed to share the sentiment.

‘We did well to distract him as long as we did,’ Bilbo announced into the heavy atmosphere that fell. ‘Certainly it could have been a great deal worse. I will feel better once we have cover though. I think it is time we moved on.’

‘Indeed,’ Gandalf agreed, shepherding Bofur and Fíli forwards. ‘Come along, all of you. We have no time to waste.’

‘If we’d had horses we might have outrun him entirely,’ Alnir whispered to Sigrid.

‘Oh, hush, you,’ was the only reply she could come up with. If the rest of the quest was this exciting she’d be as grey as Gandalf’s cloak within the month.

 ***

Sméagol had been alive a very long time, he knew. Far longer than any hobbit would live. In the Shire, the hobbits had talked of the ‘Old Took’ who had lived 130 years. Sméagol did not know how old he was. His memories had been blurry after precious came to him. They were clearer now, but they still wriggled and squirmed out of his grasp sometimes, like fishes trying to escape being caught. He was older than 130 though. He knew that.

You did not live as long as Sméagol without learning how to wait.

They were running from the orcses and the black nightmares that had come to take precious. The elves who had kept Sméagol warm and comfortable over the winter, the dwarves who watched Sméagol with hard, wary glances and the men who tried not to look at him at all. They were all running, running, running, trying to get far away from the hobbit who had the precious and his friends. 

Far away from where Sméagol’s friends had gone.

Sméagol missed his hobbits. Clever Merry with his maps and his stories, who scolded Sméagol as Grandmother used to scold him, but smiled at him when he was witty as well. Bright Pippin with the loud laugh and the happy eyes, so like Déagol’s even though Pippin wasn’t much like Déagol at all. Sméagol missed them and he wanted them here. Safe. With him.

He wanted precious as well. Still felt the gaping hole where precious had been for years and years. Heard silence where for so long there had been a whispering voice filling Sméagol’s ears even in the quiet. 

He just wasn’t sure which one he wanted more.

They were in the same place, his precious and his hobbits. Far, far away now, past the gold trees and rushing water and maybe out of Sméagol’s reach. It was so tempting to go after them though. He wanted to and it had been a long, long time since Sméagol had stopped himself doing what he wanted.

Or was that a lie? Was Sméagol the one who always did what he wanted? The other person in his head, the one that was quieter and quieter the longer precious was gone, _that_ always did what it wanted. Now, Sméagol could remember lots of times it had stopped him doing what _he_ wanted. It had stopped him going out into the light, when he had dreamed of being outside and wanted to see the sun again.

Was that a separate person though? He had thought so, had always thought so. Had thought that precious had brought that person with it, had…. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. The more time he spent with people, good people not stupid people like the ones in stupid Bree, the more he understood that no one else had a separate person in their head. Not even the hobbit who had precious.

But if it wasn’t a person then that meant it was Sméagol, and it didn’t feel like it was Sméagol. Sméagol didn’t want to do the things it did. He didn’t want to hurt his hobbits. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not really.

For all that his memories were clearer now, Sméagol felt as confused as ever.

Except about one thing. His hobbits were in danger. They were young and small and clever in some ways but very, very silly in others. They needed someone to protect them. They needed Sméagol to protect them. He didn’t trust anyone else. Not even the kind elf’s brother.

So, really, Sméagol’s decision had been made the moment his hobbits decided to go after the others.

Sméagol would be going too.

He just had to wait for the right moment to escape. When they stopped running for a while, when the kind elf was distracted and the elf lord too. When there were no dwarves staring at him with hard eyes, like the angry king who glared at everything as if it was attacking him but glared at Sméagol most of all. Or the strong one with pictures on his skin, who kept Sméagol in the corner of his eye but didn’t even seem to realise he was doing it.

Sméagol’s time would come though. He was very quiet and very quick. He just had to hope he would be quick enough.

******


	13. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's small Fellowship have a big task before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within a week this time! I am probably far more relieved about that than you are :) Thank you for all the comments and kudos. It's always good to know there are people still reading.
> 
> Massive thanks to ISeeFire for the quick and thorough beta.

Chapter Twelve: Catching Up 

Travelling, Frodo quickly discovered, was a very different thing when you were an adult than when you were a faunt. As a faunt Frodo had crossed a vast distance from the Shire to Erebor in the company of his uncle and his dwarven cousins and had thought little of it. It had been exciting more than anything. The world was full of things he had never seen before, places he had only heard of in stories and could now see for himself. He had loved them all – Bree for its liveliness, Rivendell for its peace, Beorn’s home for its comfort and homeliness, the Woodland Realm for its grandeur. Erebor. Erebor above all, for its people and the family he had found there.

There was no home waiting for him at the end of this journey. Until he caught up with the Fellowship there was no Uncle Bilbo to teach him about all the curiosities they came across. No Kíli to hunt for them and teach Frodo little tricks for lighting fires and keeping supplies dry. No Fíli to make the everyday decisions of where they would stop and for how long. To make him feel safe when they were attacked and he stood guard over Frodo, stopping anything from reaching him.

Frodo shouldn’t want any of that anymore. He was an adult and adults made their own way, their own decisions, protected themselves. Now, though, with two companions under his care, the burden was heavy. The world looked a lot bigger when Frodo was out in it with only two hobbits his own age or younger to aid him.

‘We aren’t useless,’ Pippin said suddenly from his seat on the other side of the fire. Frodo felt his head snap up as he looked over at the other hobbit. Pippin was less familiar to him than Merry. They remembered very little about each other and did not have old patterns to fall into, so Frodo was never quite sure what to expect of him.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Frodo replied, wishing that he didn’t always sound like Dori when he was unsure of himself. He loved Dori, but the dwarf could be very prim sometimes.

‘Merry and I,’ Pippin continued evenly, watching Frodo closely. ‘We aren’t useless. We might not have gone all the way to Erebor but we made it to Lothlórien without any disasters and we learnt things while we were journeying. You don’t have to try and protect us, or whatever it is that’s got you acting so stiff all the time.’

‘Pip,’ Merry broke in, giving Pippin a small shake of his head. ‘Frodo’s worried about Bilbo and about how we’re going to catch up with them. Leave him be.’

‘He snapped at me three times for “wandering off” and swatted me away from the campfire like a faunt trying to play with fireworks,’ Pippin reminded Merry in an aggrieved tone. ‘I’ve been lighting fires since the first time we camped out in the field behind the Smials, Merry. I don’t need to be babied.’

‘Frodo wasn’t there when we camped out behind the Smials,’ Merry pointed out patiently. ‘Or any of the other times we learned the things we’ll need to know. Just as we weren’t there when he learned them. It will take a little while for us to get used to each other.’

‘You made the journey to Lothlórien with all of Lord Elrond’s household,’ Frodo let out before he could stop himself. ‘You wouldn’t have needed to know how to do anything for yourself.’

‘And you did?’ Merry asked then, pinning Frodo with a direct gaze. ‘Travelling with the King of Erebor and all of _his_ household?’

Frodo didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Merry was right, of course. Frodo hadn’t had to light the campfires, or cook the meals, or anything like that. The adults had done all of that. Frodo hated himself for thinking of it – he _was_ an adult now – but that was how it had been. That was the way everyone from Erebor had expected it to be. Frodo was the youngest. The child. Things were done for him as a matter of course.

‘If we’re going to do this journey together then you have to trust us,’ Pippin told Frodo fiercely. ‘If you second guess everything we do you’ll slow us down and you might get someone hurt.’

‘If you’re overconfident and think you know everything then _you’ll_ get someone hurt,’ Frodo argued back. He wasn’t going to sit back and be scolded by Pippin.

‘Stop it, both of you,’ Merry said abruptly. Despite having been part of the argument only moments ago he somehow made it plain that he was putting himself outside it now. ‘This isn’t helping anything.’

Frodo stopped, just as Merry had wanted. Once he had stopped, he started thinking over everything they’d just said. Repeating it in his head he just felt silly. Trying to act like he was much older than the others wasn’t going to suddenly make him older. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Not even himself.

‘We all have things to learn,’ Merry commented calmly. ‘None of us have done this on our own before. So we have to help each other. That’s why Master Dwalin agreed that Pippin and I should come, after all. So we could help you, Frodo.’

‘I know,’ Frodo answered. ‘I just…’

‘You don’t know us,’ Pippin finished for him, ‘and we don’t know you. Not really. 20 years is a long time.’

Frodo nodded shortly. It was. A long, long time. He didn’t remember the Shire very well, or the friends he had had there. He didn’t even think of himself as a hobbit half the time. He was a dwarf of Erebor, the greatest dwarven kingdom of Middle Earth. He was proud of that. 

Gandalf had told Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel that the quest needed hobbits though. The dwarves would definitely help. They were strong and Frodo knew that Fíli and Kíli and Bofur would never back down if evil attacked innocent people. Dwalin had said Gandalf was sure, however, and Gandalf knew a lot about the world that no one else seemed to. Even Uncle Thorin admitted that and he and Gandalf didn’t really get on very well most of the time. 

Maybe Frodo needed to try and remember that he could be a hobbit as well as a dwarf. That was what Uncle Bilbo had always told him. _Lad, do not think that loving dwarves means you have to be just like them_ , Bilbo’s oft-spoken words sounded in his head. _Dwarves have hard heads. Good for battle, but sometimes it makes getting ideas in there a little more difficult. We hobbits are better at that. We recognise common sense without having to be bashed over the head with it._

Uncle Bilbo would tell him to watch what people did before he judged them. He would say to give Pippin and Merry a chance to prove what they knew and could do before he dismissed them.

‘We’ll have to do something about that, then,’ Frodo said to Pippin determinedly. ‘Tell me what you’ve been taught about travelling. The more we all know the better.’

***

Three days later they first caught sight of the eaves of Fangorn Forest.

Mostly their days of walking had been boringly peaceful. The land around them was open and clear, no threats to impede their progress and very little to catch their attention. At first they had walked in silence, but as time went on and they became more accustomed to one another the quiet was broken. Pippin, Frodo had discovered, was not one for allowing long gaps in conversation. Enthusiastic about everything, he fired questions at Merry about anything from how long they had left before they saw the Fellowship to why a certain area of grass seemed to be peppered with burnt sections. He was blithely confident in Merry’s ability to answer his questions, no matter how often Merry’s response was, ‘I don’t know, Pip.’

Frodo found the interactions comforting, reminding him as they did of Fíli and Kíli together and of himself with either of his cousins. Frodo liked to think that he was a little less excitable than Pippin, being that much older, but he admired Merry’s patience. He also came to love his companions’ wealth of stories, which they shared as willingly as any hobbit. Frodo’s hobbitish love of stories had been fed in Erebor; dwarven lore was a deep well he had yet to find the bottom of and Aunt Dís, Uncle Thorin and the others were as happy to tell Frodo a new tale as Uncle Bilbo. Or to retell an old favourite. Frodo knew the story of the quest to Erebor so well that he almost felt as if he had taken part.

All in all, the days had passed easily enough and Frodo was glad to be better acquainted with his own small Fellowship. If he was a little nervous that they might never find Uncle Bilbo’s Fellowship, given how vast Fangorn seemed to be, he kept it carefully to himself. 

Though their pace had slowed somewhat after the first day, Frodo and his companions sped up once Fangorn came into sight. By the evening of their fifth day of travel they were camping at the edge of the forest, nervous of going inside in the dark. Fangorn was not an inviting forest. In fact, it gave off a faint aura of menace, the suggestion that anyone deciding to step within had best be strong of mind and of body. Frodo did not feel either as the night drew in and it seemed Merry and Pippin felt much the same. There were no objections to the idea that they should enter the forest in the morning instead.

Come the morning, however, Frodo was no more eager to enter than he had been the night before. Throughout the night he had started awake at intervals, certain that he had heard voices muttering and creatures moving at the edges of their camp. Merry, who had taken first watch, told Frodo in a hushed tone of the shadows that seemed to move inside the forest, shadows far larger than a hobbit. Though neither of them said a word to Pippin, they woke in the morning to find him thoroughly unsettled by his own turn as guard.

‘The trees are whispering to each other, Merry!’ Pippin announced as soon as they rose. ‘I could hear them. They were talking to each other and I don’t think any of it was, “oh, look, how nice to have visitors”. They’re watching us.’

Had Frodo not had his own suspicions about Fangorn’s nature, he would have dismissed this as a wild imagination and unease about being out in the dark. As it was, Frodo could fully understand Pippin’s near hysteria. Talking trees were one thing. _Unfriendly_ talking trees in a forest you were about to try and walk through were quite another.

‘Easy, Pip,’ Merry said comfortingly, crossing their small camp to rub Pippin’s arm soothingly. ‘They might just be curious. I doubt they’ve seen many hobbits, no matter how long the forest has been here.’

‘You don’t believe that any more than I do,’ Pippin told him immediately. ‘You remember what Sméagol said about the Old Forest, what the trees tried to do to him.’

If Pippin had not had all of Frodo’s attention before (he was a hobbit and it had been a very long time since dinner, after all), he had it now. They had not discussed Sméagol at all in the last few days. Merry and Pippin both seemed to understand that Frodo had good reasons for disliking and distrusting their friend and were wise enough to leave the matter be. An unspoken agreement had formed to avoid all mention of the former ringbearer. Now, however, that agreement seemed to have been broken and Frodo could not deny that he was interested.

‘What did they try to do to him?’ Frodo asked the pair of them inquisitively. They turned to look at him simultaneously, reminding Frodo yet again of his cousins.

‘Sméagol said that the trees tried to lure him to sleep and then, once he was resting, tried to eat him,’ Merry answered for the two of them.

‘ _Eat_ him?’ Frodo asked in astonishment. ‘Why would a tree want to eat someone?’

‘It might be that it didn’t actually want to eat him,’ Merry said fairly. ‘I doubt he stopped and had a conversation about the tree’s reasons with it afterwards. It tried to harm him in some fashion though. He was very certain on that point. He called the trees “nasty”, which is Sméagol’s way of describing anything he doesn’t like, but he also said they were “tricksy”.’

‘You must have heard the tales about the Old Forest when you were a faunt, Frodo,’ Pippin continued. ‘There’s a reason that the hobbits of Buckland avoid the place.’

‘Yes, but I thought that there were dangerous creatures inside the forest,’ Frodo pointed out. ‘I didn’t think that the trees actually tried to harm people.’

‘There are other legends,’ Merry informed them both. ‘Legends about the oldest forests. Folk say that there are tree-herders, ancient beings that guard the trees and keep them in line as well. They can talk and walk just like anyone else. Trees that they have guarded long enough learn to do the same.’

‘None of this is making me want to go into that forest,’ Frodo said worriedly, now unable to help himself eyeing the forest nervously. There were at least ten army’s-worth of trees before him. If even a fraction of them were hostile then there wasn’t a chance Frodo and his companions would make it out alive.

‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ Merry responded reluctantly. ‘There’s no sign of the Fellowship on this side of the forest and we can see a good long way into the distance from here. We know that they meant to go through Fangorn. Gandalf was still hoping to go to Isengard and get help from Saruman. If we try to go around Fangorn then we’ll never catch them.’ 

Hearing it said so plainly made Frodo realise how right Merry was. They had to catch up with Uncle Bilbo if they were going to actually help, rather than trail after the adults like puppies following their mother. To catch him, they had to go through the forest. There was no two ways about it. Like it or not, Frodo was entering Fangorn. Whining about it wouldn’t change anything. Deliberately pulling his gaze away from the trees, Frodo turned to start gathering up his belongings. The sooner they got going the longer the light would last.

‘Pip,’ he heard Merry say quietly behind him. There was no response but shortly afterward Pippin, too, began collecting his things and packing them away. Some seconds passed without any comment, before Pippin broke the silence.

‘If I get eaten by a tree, I’m going to come back as a wizard so I can burn the whole stupid forest down.’

A moment later, the silence was broken again by a creaking, almost-moan from the direction of Fangorn. All three hobbits spun around to stare at the forest, which was giving a very good impression of innocence. When nothing further happened, they all turned to look at one another.

‘No more talk of burning,’ Merry said firmly to them. ‘Or cutting down or anything else that might offend them. I am not going to die because we upset the trees with bad manners.’

Frodo joined Pippin in frantically nodding his agreement. If he was killed because Fangorn didn’t like his manners then Aunt Dís would revive him so she could kill him herself.

***

Inside, Frodo quickly realised that all the daylight in Middle Earth wasn’t going to make any difference; Fangorn Forest was as close and dark as he had feared. The occasional shafts of light that penetrated the foliage didn’t stand a chance of lifting the ever-present gloom and Frodo lost all track of what time it should be. In these circumstances their best hopes of marking the passing of the day were their stomachs, which made it perfectly plain when it was time to eat.

So far the trees had done nothing worse than moan and groan as they passed. Merry had whispered, very quietly in case the trees were listening, that it was as if the forest was determined to make its dislike of visitors plain but couldn’t be bothered to do anything else.

‘That or they’re preparing for something truly impressive,’ Pippin whispered back. Pippin’s usual optimism seemed to have abandoned him, but Frodo couldn’t really blame him that much.

That first day within the forest was almost entirely silent, punctuated only by snippets of complaint masquerading as conversation. When the time came to rest, the three of them settled warily in the middle of a clearing, in the hope that they would be safer if they weren’t directly under the trees. 

It proved to be a vain hope. Though Pippin had assured Frodo that he had seen no sign of any trouble during the second watch, Frodo could not say the same about the third. Mostly because he had, much to his consternation and embarrassment, been overcome by tiredness and fallen asleep.

He was, therefore, more than slightly startled to wake the next morning caged in by roots or branches, it was hard to tell which, with brambles threading in through the cracks. Frodo’s first thought wasn’t so much a thought as an instant of blind panic which had him throwing his weight against the bars of their prison. His second thought was to damn himself for his stupidity; how could he have fallen asleep when they were in so much danger? 

His third thought was that he itched abominably. Merry apparently shared that thought. He came awake more slowly than Frodo, already scratching at his arm and muttering about the evils of bramble patches. Frodo could tell the moment Merry realised what was going on, though. The other hobbit tried to surge to his feet, whacked his head on an ill-placed root (not that any of them were well-placed, exactly, but this one was at a particularly unfortunate height) and yelped.

‘Pippin!’ he called immediately afterward. ‘Pippin, wake up. Wake UP!’

‘What?’ Pippin moaned sleepily. ‘It can’t be breakfast time already.’

‘If this is breakfast time then we’re the food,’ Merry said, his voice high-pitched and scared.

‘What?’ Pippin asked again, far more coherently this time. He opened his eyes and took in the sight around them, then continued with, ‘I’m going to burn this place to the _ground_.’

‘Well now, that is very unkind of you,’ a slow, deep voice answered from outside their cage. ‘You are all in one piece still, though you may not stay that way if you threaten to burn my friends. No harm has come to you yet.’

‘Who are you?’ Frodo asked worriedly. ‘Can you get us out of here?’

‘How did we even get in here?’ Pippin muttered to Merry. ‘I thought Frodo was on watch.’ Frodo tried to concentrate on what was happening and ignore the flush of shame that he could feel burning in his face.

‘I could, perhaps,’ the voice responded, ‘but then perhaps I could not. It would all depend, I suppose, on who _you_ are and why you are come here?' 

Merry and Frodo exchanged a long look as Pippin pushed at the brambles surrounding them and tried to see the other participant in their discussion. It took only that one look for them to come to an agreement. They had no axes, no weapons except the sword Kíli had forged for Frodo and two short daggers that the elves had provided when he had expressed a desire to have elven weapons ‘like Uncle Bilbo’s’. Frodo knew, as Merry did, that without help they had little chance of getting out of this mess. Swords were not made to cut through tree-roots. 

‘I am Frodo, nephew of Bilbo, dwarf-friend and advisor to Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain,’ Frodo announced formally, using Uncle Bilbo’s official titles. In Erebor they would have added ‘dragon-slayer’, but Uncle Bilbo pulled such a face every time they did so that Uncle Thorin had finally agreed to leave that one off when they were outside the Mountain. Nori said that it was because Bilbo looking as if he’d just swallowed poison was bad for diplomatic relations. That was generally about the time that Dori thumped Nori and told him to ‘stop filling the lad’s head with nonsense’.

‘That,’ came the voice’s reply, ‘is a very large title for someone so small. Tell me Frodo, nephew of Bilbo, why have you come here?’ 

‘I am looking for Uncle Bilbo,’ Frodo answered, not really sure what else to say. They were supposed to be discreet after all. Frodo couldn’t go around announcing that they were off to defeat evil. He wasn’t really sure yet if the being he was talking to was evil itself.

‘Ah,’ was all Frodo heard. Long moments passed without any further comment. Then, suddenly, the voice began to speak again. ‘Well, then, you are in luck, little hobbit.’ 

Here the being was interrupted by Pippin again, though Frodo wasn’t sure he was aware of it.

‘Considering everyone kept telling us that hobbits don’t leave the Shire,’ Pippin mused, ‘an awful lot of people we meet seem to know what hobbits are.’

Merry looked unimpressed by this deep thought. Most likely because the being was continuing to speak and his next words were,

‘Your uncle and his companions passed through the forest the day before yesterday. I met them quite by chance, as I was walking the forest, and spoke with them. It was a brief conversation; they all seemed like very hasty folk. Perhaps that is why they failed to mention you.’

Frodo decided that lying by omission was better than lying outright. This being wasn’t to know that Uncle Bilbo would be furious if he found out that Frodo wasn’t with Uncle Thorin on his way back to Erebor.

The being must have accepted his silence as agreement, for abruptly the branches above them were being heaved upward and away. Pippin squeaked and ended up crouched on the floor after a large wooden claw nearly took a handful of his curly hair away along with the branches. Frodo found himself peering up carefully, intrigued at what sort of wooden device the being they were talking to was using to move the branches.

He got the shock of his life when he realised that it wasn’t a device at all.

‘Is that a person?’ Pippin said slowly, awe-struck and confused in equal measure. ‘Is that a _tree-person_?’

‘I am an ent,’ the being before them informed Pippin grandly.

‘He’s a tree-herder, Pip,’ Merry breathed, entirely enthralled, ‘like in the old stories in the Shire.’

‘I am,’ the ent replied, ‘and that is me. I am called Treebeard by some. I shall not tell you my entish name. You would doubtless be too hasty to do it justice. You small creatures always are.’

‘Would it take a long time to say?’ Pippin asked curiously. ‘We are in a bit of a rush, but surely it could not take that long.’

‘Anything worth saying, little hobbit,’ Treebeard answered ponderously, ‘is worth taking a long time to say. Names are very important indeed and so they are very long indeed.’

‘Please,’ Frodo interrupted quickly, ‘could you tell us where we should go to find Uncle Bilbo and the others? We have to catch up with them soon.’

‘They were walking to the south of my forest,’ Treebeard explained, ‘but I do not think you will catch them, little hobbit. It is a large distance and you are a small person.’

‘We have to,’ Frodo said, hearing his voice crack and knowing he sounded frantic. This worry had been creeping up on him for days and he had tried to push it away each time, but hearing someone actually state aloud that he was too far behind was more than he could ignore. ‘We have to catch them. It’s important.’

‘What is important to little folk is often unimportant in the end,’ Treebeard replied, staring at them calmly. Frodo nearly shouted with frustration. Why couldn’t they have been found by someone with a sense of urgency? ‘I suppose the wizard did seem to think their errand important, however, and wizards normally understand these sorts of things. Perhaps I will show you the way… no, perhaps not, for you would not catch up with them.’ Frodo realised he was teetering forward, rising up on the balls of his feet as if he was about to sprint through Fangorn. Just tell me, he thought anxiously, just tell me which way to go.

‘No,’ Treebeard stated, still slow but sounding certain, ‘I will not show you.’ Pippin made a noise of protest that Treebeard didn’t seem to hear.

‘I will not show you,’ the ent asserted again. ‘I will take you. It will be much quicker for you, but I will not need to go quickly at all.’

Frodo took a moment, after he had swallowed a cry of joy, to think through that sentence before it made sense. Then he looked up, all the way up, at Treebeard and realised how much ground the ent could cover in a few steps. More than enough to make up for the lead that the Fellowship had. Frodo and the others might just reach them after all. His entire body slumped with relief. 

Then he felt himself rising off the floor, caught up in one of Treebeard’s massive hands and settled firmly on a branch jutting out from his body… trunk… whatever it was. Moments later Merry and Pippin followed him.

‘Just because we're small,’ Pippin complained, thankfully under his breath, ‘does not mean that everyone can just pick us up whenever they want to.’

‘At least no one put you on their lap during the Council,’ Frodo told him sagely. ‘Prince Legolas put Uncle Bilbo on his lap when there weren’t enough chairs.’

‘Why didn’t he just get another chair?’ Merry asked, ever practical. Frodo shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I asked Prince Legolas, King Thranduil and Uncle Bilbo and they all just laughed. Captain Tauriel just said that Prince Legolas is strange and I was better off not thinking about it.’

‘Who’s Captain Tauriel?’ Pippin queried interestedly. Frodo smiled inwardly as he realised that he had, as planned, successfully stopped Pippin from saying anything else that might offend their host and guide. Ori was right. It really was easy once you knew how.

***

Despite how reluctant he had been to enter Fangorn Forest, and how terrified he had been to wake up and find himself trapped and with no way out, Merry couldn’t help thinking that coming into the forest was one of the best decisions he had ever made. As Treebeard covered miles in what seemed like minutes, Merry mused that he would have taken being caught by evil trees ten times over to get to this point. He was talking to an ent. A real shepherd of the forest.

He had so many questions he didn’t even know where to start.

Not surprisingly, Pippin had managed half a dozen before Merry had even come up with his first. So far they had made their way through ‘so are there lots of you ents?’ all the way down to ‘why don’t all trees talk?’ without Pip taking more than a few pauses for breath. Treebeard had begun to answer the first question but had stopped when he realised that Pippin wasn’t waiting to hear the answers.

‘You should let other people talk, Master Pippin,’ Treebeard scolded ever-so-gently, ancient eyes amused. ‘If you do not, how will you ever find out all the things you wish to know?’

Pippin’s mouth, which had been open as he prepared to fire out another question, closed quickly. Then he blushed.

‘If I don’t get them out quickly I forget them,’ Pippin explained shyly. Now Merry was amused as well – it wasn’t often that Pippin felt shy. He was more the type to be entirely unabashed by anything that happened.

‘If you ask them so quickly, the person you are questioning will forget them,’ Treebeard pointed out. Pippin looked thoughtful for a moment and Merry took advantage of the pause.

‘Will you tell us about ents, Treebeard?’ he asked simply. ‘All we know of your people comes from legend.’

‘Now that, Master Merry,’ Treebeard responded, ‘is a worthy tale. It is not a short one, either, but I will do what I can to make it shorter. One day, perhaps, you will have time to listen to it as it should be told.’

Leaning against Treebeard’s trunk to rest a little, Merry settled in to listen. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, he really had wanted to hear the story, but he had slept poorly the last few nights and Treebeard’s voice, a low rumble, was soothing.

It was not so soothing some time later, when Merry was jolted awake by Treebeard’s sudden halt and the roar, full of a combination of anger and anguish, which followed

‘What is this?’ the ent boomed. ‘Who has done this?’

It was easy to see what he was talking about. The edge of the forest, or where the edge should have been, had been utterly destroyed. It was not a wide swathe of forest, only a few trees deep, but it stretched as far as Merry’s eyes could see in both directions. Normally it would have made Merry a little sad, but not overly so. Trees were beautiful and he hated to see them cut down, but they were only trees.

Only now that wasn’t true. Treebeard’s tale, what he had heard of it, had made it quite clear that to Treebeard the trees were as alive as any hobbit. Now they were gone.

‘Why?’ Treebeard said, softer now although his voice was still loud to Merry’s ears. ‘Why would this be done? Why did the trees not tell us?’

‘Treebeard,’ Pippin said hesitantly. ‘I am sorry.’ Pippin’s hand patted gently at Treebeard’s trunk, though the ent hardly seemed to notice. He gazed around, distraught and disbelieving, and Merry knew that the other two were like him, without anything else to say. Nothing broke the silence until, some minutes later, Frodo spoke unexpectedly.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at something towards the far edge of the newly-bare land.

‘It’s a branch,’ Merry responded in confusion, looking over at Frodo after he had ascertained what Frodo meant. The other hobbit was already shaking his head.

‘No,’ Pippin said slowly, peering in the same direction. ‘That’s not a branch, Merry. Treebeard, can you take us closer?’ Treebeard didn’t respond immediately, but then he began to move without uttering a sound. As they neared the area Frodo had indicated, Merry realised that Pippin was right. That wasn’t a branch at all. It was…. No, it couldn’t be.

‘That’s not what I think it is, is it?’ Frodo asked worriedly. ‘It’s not, it’s….’

‘Gandalf’s staff,’ Merry heard himself say incredulously. ‘Frodo, that’s Gandalf’s staff!’

******

 


	14. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship have their own trials in Fangorn Forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos! I appreciate each and every one, as well as your patience :) This chapter fought back when I was writing it, but I won in the end.
> 
> Thank you to ISeeFire, as always, for the beta.

Chapter Thirteen: Resolution

‘Do you think it would be rude to tell the forest that Mirkwood was scarier?’ Kíli mused aloud as they walked through Fangorn. Fíli resisted the urge to just stare at his brother in bafflement. How did these things even come into his head? It was like there was a normal way of looking at the world and then there was the Kíli way of looking at it, and the twain very rarely met. Even spending their entire lives together didn’t really allow Fíli to understand what Kíli was thinking sometimes.

‘It is not called _Mirkwood_ ,’ Legolas said severely from the front of the party. He did not seem the slightest bit daunted by Fangorn’s unfriendly air, despite informing them earlier in the day that the trees were talking to one another. When Sigrid had asked what they were talking about Legolas had clammed up and refused to say any more. Strangely enough, they had all found that a bit off-putting.

‘Not anymore,’ Kíli acknowledged to Legolas equably, still eyeing the trees with a slightly jaundiced look.

‘It was not called Mirkwood then either,’ Legolas shot back, rolling his eyes when he realised that Kíli wasn’t even listening. Bilbo gave the blond elf a sympathetic look, as Fíli did. They’d all been there.

‘We are sure that we are going the right way, aren’t we?’ Bilbo asked Legolas. Not the most subtle way of changing the conversation, perhaps, but sometimes subtlety was overrated.

‘We are perfectly sure, Bilbo,’ Gandalf said firmly from his position next to Legolas. ‘I have made this journey more than once.’

‘He’d made the journey through the Misty Mountains more than once as well,’ Fíli muttered to his brother, ‘and we still ended up losing Bilbo in a goblin cave.’

‘This time we’ll keep a better eye on him,’ was Kíli’s response. ‘Try not to knock him off any heights and we should be fine.’

‘That was an accident!’ Fíli exclaimed irritably. Unfortunately Kíli was paying no more attention to him than he was to Legolas.

In fact he was so busy staring around them at the trees, looking for Mahal knew what, that he very nearly ended up tripping over and tumbling down the incline to one side of the path.

‘Oh, come here,’ Elladan sighed, reaching out and catching hold of the back of Kíli’s neck once he had righted himself. ‘You walk, I’ll steer. Otherwise losing Bilbo will be the least of our problems.’

‘No one is going to lose me,’ Bilbo informed them firmly. ‘I am perfectly capable of staying with my companions during a walk through a forest.’

‘We’re just being careful,’ Fíli told him. ‘You are rather important for this journey. Also, Uncle will murder us one by one if you don’t come home.’

‘He would do no such thing,’ Bilbo retorted and Fíli decided to let it go. If Bilbo wished to underestimate Uncle’s overprotective instinct then that was entirely up to him.

‘Does anyone else feel that?’ Strider asked several minutes later, after the conversation had died away. The Ranger’s face was intent, but not so much worried as curious. Fíli concentrated for a moment and, after a short while, thought he understood what the man was talking about. There was a vibration, faint and rhythmic, which seemed to be running through the forest floor.

Instinctively Fíli turned to Bofur, ready to ask what he could tell from the stone. He was greeted by an immediate shrug from the miner.

‘Nothing’s registering as unusual,’ Bofur informed him. ‘Whatever it is, the forest senses it as a part of daily life. That’s as much as I can make out.’

‘Which means nothing except that the thing making that disturbance does so regularly,’ Alnir concluded.

‘Sorry, lad,’ Bofur said with a wry smile and a shrug. ‘I can only work with what I’ve got.’

‘Legolas, can you keep an eye out for anything approaching?’ Fíli asked, just as Gandalf also said,

‘I am sure it is nothing to be concerned about. The forest is not evil, for all of your fretting about its atmosphere.’

There was a brief pause while Fíli met Gandalf’s raised eyebrow with a querying look of his own, then Gandalf chuckled.

‘By all means, Legolas, keep watch if it will make the rest of you feel safer,’ he conceded. ‘I feel no true menace here, though. More annoyance than anything. It will pass.’

‘Under the circumstances it cannot hurt to be careful,’ Strider agreed as Legolas nodded and the party moved on.

Fíli was thankful for their vigilance some minutes later; not because of any evil abroad, but because he had forewarning of what was approaching and so did not greet his first Ent gaping like a fish with his eyes all agog. It was always best to try and preserve dignity when meeting new people, even if the good impression didn’t last very long.

‘It has been long since anyone passed through Fangorn Forest except in case of dire need,’ the ent’s voice rumbled as he (Gandalf had quickly told the Fellowship, with a stern look at certain members, that all ents were male and that was all they needed to know) grew near. ‘Anyone who was not an orc, in any case. You are clearly not orcs, however, not with a wizard and elves among you. In which case you are welcome here.’

‘Our thanks, Master Ent,’ Gandalf said on behalf of the Fellowship. ‘I do not believe we have met, though in days past I have journeyed through Fangorn.’

‘Aye, I believe I do remember you,’ the ent replied. ‘You were always in a hurry, Master Wizard, so I did not stop you to talk. The head of your order was once a very welcome visitor to my forest, though we have not seem him for many a long year.’

‘Nor have I seen him of late,’ Gandalf answered. ‘In fact, that is our current destination. We go to Isengard to seek Saruman’s wisdom ere we go any further on our journey.’

‘Indeed,’ the ent said in a contemplative manner. ‘Well, when you do see him you may tell him that Treebeard sends his greetings.’

‘I will be sure to do so,’ Gandalf told him. ‘I am Gandalf the Grey, Treebeard, and perhaps one day I will be able to come to Fangorn when I am not in a hurry and we will talk more.’

‘A fine thought,’ Treebeard exclaimed. ‘The forest grows old and crotchety in its old age. There are no longer enough ents here to tend to our duty properly and I fear the trees grow less and less fond of visitors as the years pass. Perhaps more travellers will help them to accustom themselves to the idea again. Now, I will let you be on your way. I would say only that if you head for Isengard you might wish to adjust your route. Take that path there and you will be closer to your mark.’

‘Of course,’ Gandalf said grandly, very pointedly ignoring Kíli’s fit of giggles. ‘Good day to you.’

With no more ado they were off again. Fíli did not think that any of them were exactly complacent about their surroundings, but at least Kíli had stopped trying to stare in every direction at once.

***

Their first night in Fangorn Forest was not the most relaxing experience Aragorn had ever had. In theory a Ranger should be most at home in the wild places of the world, but he could admit to himself that he generally preferred places a little less wild than Fangorn. He was determined to put on a brave front before his new companions, though, especially as he did not know many of them very well at all.

He was comforted by Elladan’s presence, for all that his elder brother had a penchant for teasing people to the point of distraction. It had been most amusing to watch Lady Sigrid, who had been perfectly polite to those she did not know and affectionate to those she did, very nearly hiss and spit whenever Elladan spoke. Aragorn was not entirely sure why Lady Sigrid seemed so determined to hold Elladan’s idiotic comment at the Council against him, given that he had already apologised, but there was some entertainment to be had from it. Elladan very rarely came across anyone who actively disliked him and he really did not seem to know what to do.

As evidenced by the fact that he was now approaching Lady Sigrid, during her turn on watch, and trying to strike up a conversation. Completely ignoring, of course, the fulminating glare she was turning upon him.

‘Are we to have this enmity between us all the way to Mordor, my lady?’ Elladan asked quietly, clearly believing that they were all asleep. Aragorn was fairly sure that Master Alnir had awoken the moment that Elladan passed by him, as had Master Bofur. Aragorn had noted early on that, while most of the Fellowship were old friends, those two were each in their own way very close to Lady Sigrid and apparently slightly protective of her.

‘I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,’ Lady Sigrid replied. Aragorn nearly choked trying to hold laughter in. She was an absolutely terrible liar. Even from across the fire he could see Master Bofur’s shoulders jerking slightly and assumed that the dwarf was having the same problem.

‘Come now,’ Elladan scolded gently, ‘we both know that is not true.’

‘Do we?’ Lady Sigrid queried. ‘I know no such thing, I assure you.’

‘Deliberate obtuseness is not an attractive trait, my lady,’ Elladan pointed out. Whether he had been aiming to strike a nerve Aragorn did not know, but he had certainly managed to do so.

‘Neither…,’ Lady Sigrid snapped. She paused when she realised how loudly she was speaking and started again in a quieter, but no less fierce, tone. ‘Neither is assuming that someone cannot do something when you have barely ever met them and know nothing about them.’

‘That is what this is all about?’ Elladan asked, rather stupidly in Aragorn’s opinion. It had been perfectly clear that Lady Sigrid was angry at the Council. ‘My lady it was an innocent comment, not a declaration of war.’

‘Well perhaps you should have considered the innocent comment a little more before you said it,’ came Lady Sigrid’s response. ‘You had no reason to think that I was not just as capable as anyone else. My brother and all of our closest friends were perfectly content for me to go, what business was it of yours?’

When Elladan spoke again, after a brief pause, Aragorn tensed himself in case he had to intervene. It took a fair bit to rouse Elladan’s temper but Lady Sigrid was getting very close.

‘It is not a crime to show concern,’ Elladan bit out. ‘Nor does it need to turn into a long-held grudge. The women of Imladris very rarely go into combat, for very good reason…’

‘What the women of Imladris do is, of course, their own decision. Were I one of your household then perhaps your concern would be warranted, Lord Elladan, but I am not. My decisions are my own. I do not need them made for me simply because I am a woman,’ Lady Sigrid said passionately.

‘I do not believe it _was_ unwarranted, my lady. I am glad that you have never had reason to consider the possibility, but orcs will do to a woman what it might never occur to them to do to a man,’ Elladan barked in return. ‘As they did to my mother.’

Aragorn heard himself breathe in sharply, thankful that it was covered by Lady Sigrid’s own gasp. Lady Celebrian’s decision to leave for Valinor was a very sore spot in Imladris and not often spoken of.

‘Oh,’ Aragorn heard Lady Sigrid exclaim after a moment. ‘Oh, Lord Elladan, I am so very sorry. I had no idea.’

‘No,’ Elladan sighed, ‘of course you did not. It was a very long time ago, by the reckoning of your people.’

‘But not so for yours,’ she completed.

‘No,’ he agreed softly, ‘not for mine. Not for my family.’

‘I am sorry,’ Lady Sigrid repeated.

‘It is nothing,’ Elladan said, not even hesitating at the blatant untruth. ‘Just, try not to take everything said to you so personally.’

‘I do try,’ Lady Sigrid replied quietly. ‘Clearly it works better some times than others. I am too used to fighting this battle, apparently. I have begun to prepare for it even when there is no need.’

For a moment Lady Sigrid did not speak and Aragorn thought she was finished. Then her voice came again.

‘Though it will not absolve me from brooding over an imagined slight, I would say that I have considered the possibility you spoke of, my lord. More than once. Captain Tauriel and Princess Dís were both kind enough to try and temper my childish optimism when I first decided on my path. I chose to fight, and would choose it again, despite the dangers… and I thank you for your concern.’

‘Then I can admire your courage, even if I would rather not have been subject to the sharp edge of your tongue and rather impressive glower. Shall we start again, then?’ Elladan asked, tone friendly now. ‘I did not make an ill-judged remark about whether you should come on this journey and you have not spent the last few days glaring every time I open my mouth?’

‘I believe we can manage that,’ she answered. Aragorn gave an internal sigh of relief and deliberately stopped eavesdropping. That was the most obvious conflict resolved, thankfully. Now they only had the rest of the forest to contend with.

***

Thankfully Fangorn seemed to settle after their encounter with Treebeard, though it remained uninviting. Whether this was because the ent had done something to try and calm the trees, or because the trees had grown bored of their game, the Fellowship was not sure. They decided to simply be thankful for the change and to make their way through the forest as quickly as they could.

Their first true hint that they were nearing the end of this stage of their journey was the extra light that seemed to be reaching through the foliage, lighting the path they walked and cheering them all. In their excitement at actually being able to see clearly for the first time in days, they did not immediately notice the growing tension in the air. Bilbo was the first to sense it, stopping dead in the middle of the path and causing Fíli to rock up onto his toes to prevent himself from running over the hobbit.

‘Bilbo?’ Fíli questioned in surprise. ‘Are you alright?’

‘This isn’t right,’ Bilbo said unhelpfully. Fíli gave him an impatient look which apparently conveyed his sentiments well enough, for Bilbo clarified, ‘The trees are angrier again. Can you not feel it? The forest is seething.’

‘Seething forests?’ Sigrid commented. ‘That sounds… worrying.’

Legolas and Elladan were both listening intently, though what they were listening to Fíli didn’t know. He could only assume that forests spoke to his elven and hobbit friends the way that the mountains spoke to her people. Not as clearly as she did to Bofur, but making her presence felt nonetheless. Or perhaps trees spoke more clearly to Legolas than he’d thought. The elf turned quickly to Gandalf and fired something at him in rapid elvish.

‘In a language we can _all_ understand, thank you,’ Kíli said, even as Fíli prepared himself to do the same. Alnir and Sigrid both looked at Kíli gratefully. Being so close to the Woodland Realm they knew a little of the elven tongue, Sigrid more than Alnir after the months she’d spent training with Legolas and Tauriel, but neither of them considered themselves fluent. Fíli certainly wasn’t.

‘The trees whisper to each other of attacks,’ Elladan translated swiftly. ‘Of axes and fire brought to bear upon them. They have no true concept of who is making the attacks, so they judge all outsiders to be a threat. They like our presence even less than their brothers nearer to Lórien.’

‘Fantastic,’ Alnir said dryly. ‘Trees with a grudge. Exactly what this quest was in need of.’

‘If they are being attacked then why can we see nothing doing the attacking?’ Fíli asked Elladan. Gandalf and Legolas were deep in conference, heads close together.

‘By Gandalf’s guess because their attackers are not near here,’ Elladan replied. 'Think of it as a crowd of your people all standing close together. You may not be able to see what is taking place at the front, but your fellows can pass the news back easily enough.’

‘We must careful now,’ Gandalf announced as he finished his discussion with Legolas. ‘Whatever is cutting down trees is unlikely to be friendly to us; unless the Rohirrim have decided to brave Fangorn’s magic, which I doubt. The horsemen like this place no more than most of you. Keep your weapons to hand.’

Fíli quickly obeyed, unsheathing his daggers and hearing the others of the Fellowship do the same. He moved to Bilbo’s side and Kíli did the same opposite. When Bofur came behind them and Alnir and Sigrid moved to the front Fíli forced himself to relax. Starting at shadows because he was strung as tight as Kíli’s bow would help no one.

‘You do all realise that I am now almost blind?’ Bilbo asked them tartly, though none of them made the first sign of moving.

‘Should you need to fight, Bilbo,’ Alnir told him seriously, ‘then no doubt you will be able to see clearly enough.’

‘The forest did not like that,’ Legolas stated worriedly. ‘We must move quickly.’

‘Come,’ Gandalf commanded and the Fellowship picked up their pace, not running but not exactly on an afternoon stroll either.

The closer they drew to the edge, the more worrying things became. After nearly an hour of being on edge and wary, Fíli began to hear creaking noises followed by thudding impacts. Shortly afterwards the sound of croaking, braying laughter followed and Fíli’s eyes met his brother’s instantly.

‘That’s orcish laughter,’ Kíli said aloud, confirming Fíli’s thought.

‘How did they get ahead of us?’ Aragorn queried. ‘They all went north when the others left Lothlórien.’

‘So we thought,’ Bofur answered, ‘but if I was wrong…’

‘You were not wrong,’ Fíli broke in immediately. ‘When it comes to the stone I have never known you to be wrong. Something else is at work here.’

‘And I have a terrible feeling I know what it is,’ Gandalf said tensely.

‘Gandalf?’ Bilbo questioned when the wizard did not continue. Then, again, ‘ _Gandalf_?’

‘Saruman did not attend the Council,’ Gandalf muttered almost to himself. ‘He has not done so for several years. Our messages to him went unanswered. Treebeard says that he no longer visits the forest and the messenger we sent to Gondor and Rohan never returned with a reply, nor did any emissary from those countries arrive in Lothlórien.’

‘Circumstantial at best, my friend,’ Elladan pointed out. ‘We cannot condemn him for being a terrible conversationalist and there is no saying that the messenger Grandfather sent did not run into trouble after he had delivered his message to Saruman.’

‘Then why did he not come?’ Aragorn asked sharply, eyes narrowed as he considered the different points Gandalf had made. ‘If there is a more urgent problem in Middle Earth none of us know of it. From what Elrond said of Saruman he was ever keen to involve himself in the world’s events and yet he could not leave his tower when every other member of the Council and most of Middle Earth’s leaders were gathering so nearby? It is suspicious, Elladan, you know it.’

‘To allow orcs so close to his border and do nothing doesn’t speak well of him, either,’ Sigrid said when Aragorn had finished. She looked at Legolas and shrugged one shoulder. ‘Sometimes it cannot be helped, of course, but Saruman is neither without power nor without allies. If this was happening why did he not ask for help? From the Ents if no one else. It is their forest the orcs destroy and Treebeard did not seem like one easily defeated to me.’

‘Whether it is Saruman or not makes little difference right now,’ Fíli stated firmly, conscious that they had continued walking even as they had debated. ‘There are orcs out there and even were Saruman on our side we couldn’t guarantee he’d arrive in time to aid us. We must try to go around them.’

‘No, we need to push through,’ Elladan argued immediately, the rest of the Fellowship coming to a halt when he stopped. ‘There is no saying that they have not spread themselves out for miles and if they sense the ring then we are lost. Every orc within a hundred miles would be on top of us in a day. The more distance we put between this forest and us the better.’

‘Then surely getting into a battle with them is the worst thing we could do,’ Fíli argued back. ‘If they didn’t know we were coming before they would then. If we head away from here and skirt round the edges of them then we will have a better chance of avoiding trouble.’

‘Fíli, for the Valar’s sake, how far would you have us go? How are we supposed to know when it is safe?’ Elladan protested. Fíli could feel tension rising within him. He was not used to arguing with Elladan, they had always got on very well before. Why would he not see sense now?

‘Elves are supposed to have the sharpest senses, aren’t you?’ Fíli asked him. ‘Surely you’d be able to tell if there were orcs nearby.’ Out of the corner of his eye Fíli could see that Gandalf was leaning back against a tree (which was very brave of him considering the mood the trees were in) and seemed disinclined to intervene. ‘Bofur could try checking for us as well.’

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Bofur exclaimed. ‘You’re not pulling me into this. Frankly, lads, I don’t care which of you has the bigger pair of bollocks, or whatever it is you’re trying to prove. Neither of you is going to be making the decision all by yourself, princes or no, so you might as well shut up and let someone else have a turn.’

Fíli heard a snort that sounded as if it came from Alnir and noticed Sigrid shaking her head. Bofur turned to look at the pair of them and Fíli could have sworn he saw the miner wink.

Elladan sputtered for a second as he stared at Bofur in astonishment and Fíli understood the urge. They were not _comparing bollocks_ or whatever it was that Bofur thought they were doing. They were…

‘Trying to take charge of a party full of leaders of the different races probably isn’t going to work, big brother,’ Kíli whispered in his ear. ‘I’d give in gracefully if I were you.’

‘I am not trying to take charge,’ Fíli whispered back in annoyance. Kíli gave him an extremely sceptical look. ‘I’m not!’ Fíli repeated. Kíli continued looking at him with one eyebrow raised, which made him resemble Uncle in a truly eerie manner, but said nothing.

‘You both have a point,’ Gandalf said then, straightening up and regaining control of the situation. ‘I have been trying to sense Saruman while you talked and can find no sign of him. That means we can, for now, remove him from our calculations. Legolas has gone to see if he can find out how many orcs there are ahead of us, so let us wait and see what he says when he returns.’

Fíli had not even noticed Legolas leaving, which was rather embarrassing, but he could admit that more intelligence would be no bad thing. They waited for some minutes, all clustered around Bilbo, before Legolas returned.

‘Well?’ Gandalf asked as he approached.

‘Around seventy,’ Legolas informed him. ‘They are a larger and stronger type of orc than normal. Not so big as Azog, I do not think, but they look dangerous and the sun does not seem to be bothering them overmuch. They are tearing the trees down and dragging them away, seemingly towards Isengard. They do not appear to be aware of our presence nearby, though the one I got closest to was muttering about the trees watching them. I could find no evidence that there are any more nearby.’

‘A new type of orc dragging trees towards Isengard,’ Gandalf stated wearily. ‘More evidence against Saruman, I fear. As is the fact that the ring does not seem to be calling to them. If they belonged to Sauron then surely it would be trying to go to them.’

‘So what do we do?’ Elladan asked, deliberately not offering an opinion if Fíli guessed rightly. Fíli himself was trying to do the same.

‘We fight,’ Gandalf said firmly. ‘I do not know why the orcs have decided to tear down the forest but I do not care to leave them to it, nor to leave enemies at our back. If nothing else I would like to speak to one of these new orcs and find out what exactly Saruman is up to. With ten of us we should manage, though it will not be easy.’

‘Let us go, then,’ Bilbo said determinedly. ‘If we are going to fight best we do it in daylight and try to take them by surprise. I think we are going to need all the advantages we can get.’

With that the Fellowship formed up again, Legolas leading the way and the others giving Bilbo as much protection as they could. They travelled quickly, trying for as much silence as they could manage, and soon found themselves close enough that they could hear the orcs’ conversations clearly rather than just a babble of harsh voices.

Legolas stopped and signalled to Kíli, Elladan and Sigrid, all of whom nocked arrows to their bows, Sigrid and Elladan pausing to put their other weapons away first. The Fellowship had one piece of luck on their side – the cleared area where the trees used to be made the orcs far more easily visible to the Fellowship than they were to the orcs. Their own position was in shadow, for they were still in amongst the trees.

Unfortunately the element of surprise was short-lived. Though the first two shots from each archer managed to kill the orcs, Elladan’s third target had been stood right next to his second. The orc turned to look at his fallen comrade and Elladan’s arrow caught him in the shoulder rather than the throat. The orc howled in both pain and alarm and suddenly all of the orcs were on the alert.

The tallest orc, most likely the leader, roared at the others to attack and drew his own bow, peering into the darkness to try and spot his foes. Those who had swords, however, ran straight at the forest and the first to enter threw itself at Fíli instantly.

Anticipating the headlong charge, Fíli quickly stepped out of the way and allowed the orc’s own momentum to carry it past him and leave its back exposed. He struck out with his daggers, aiming at the orc’s side where the armour might be weaker. The dagger bit in and the orc screamed when Fíli yanked it out again. Reaching out, he caught the orc by surprise, spun it round and slashed his other dagger across its neck to kill it.

After that it was a bit of a blur. These new orcs were stronger, as Legolas had feared, and their height was irritating for a dwarf. It gave them extra reach and meant that Fíli spent a lot of time ducking around them to try and find a weak spot that was in easy reach. The one good point being that all armour was weak under the arm and Fíli was often underneath the arms of his foes as they reached out to strike at him. Bilbo had cottoned on to this tactic quickly, as far as Fíli could tell. Several times he had spotted the hobbit creeping up on one of the orcs while it fought another of the Fellowship, waiting until it stretched out to swing its weapon and then stabbing sharply upwards with Sting to pierce the skin. While none of these were killing blows, they were fairly effective at disarming the orcs. An enemy without a weapon, or at least without the ability to use its dominant arm, was far easier for the others to deal with.

Gandalf occasionally came into view as well, whipping both sword and staff around with equal speed and alternating between slashing at orcish necks and clouting them so hard on the head that they fell dazed to floor. At least one of them died when its skull caved in. Fíli made a mental note to annoy Gandalf less often in the future. He had seen the wizard fight before, of course, but not from quite so close up. It was a frightening sight.

Not, unfortunately, as frightening as seeing another wizard appear on the battlefield, however.

Fíli wouldn’t have noticed the change had the orcs not let out a boisterous roar of triumph almost in unison. He had been involved in dodging several orcs who had the intelligence to realise that attacking at the same time doubled their chances of success, which had kept him fairly distracted. He had just thrown a grateful glance at Kíli, who had shot the most troubling of his opponents, when the sudden noise rattled his teeth.

Spinning about, Fíli saw that a white-robed figure had appeared seemingly from nowhere, stood regally amidst a small group of orcs as if he had not a care in the world. From the corner of his eye Fíli noticed Gandalf opening his mouth to speak and then closing it again without uttering a word, confusion wrinkling his brow.

‘Ah, Gandalf,’ Saruman called, ‘always so certain of your own abilities. This is the second time that the perspicacity you so pride yourself upon has failed you. Did you think I would not notice your clumsy attempts at finding me? Did you think I would not know you passed so near Isengard? How naïve!’

That was what Fíli thought he said, anyway. While some of the orcs had paused to watch the scene, the more determined amongst their number had continued their assault upon the Fellowship and Fíli was side-tracked by the need to kill an orc which was about to deal Alnir a gut-wound. He was about to issue his own admonition when Alnir caught his eye.

‘I know,’ Alnir told him breathlessly, ‘don’t assume they’ll attack one at a time.’ Fíli allowed himself a brief grin at hearing the words he had scolded Sigrid with so often repeated back at him.

The distraction had been enough to prevent him hearing Gandalf’s response to Saruman’s scorn. By the time Fíli had enough attention to spare, the two wizards had closed with one another and begun their own fight. In this, Fíli judged, Gandalf had Saruman outmatched. Quite apart from anything else, Saruman bore no sword and, if Fíli was correct, showed no sign of having much martial training.

Unfortunately training is not everything. The Fellowship were still surrounded and outnumbered, despite the orcs they had already slain and those Saruman had brought with him now added to their troubles. Though they were all fighting as hard as they could, Fíli began to come to the terrible conclusion that they would not win this battle. Even more so now that there was a possibility the orcs would have reinforcements, when the Fellowship had naught but the certainty that they would stand alone.

Fíli tried to catch Legolas’ eye even as he slashed and parried, thinking to get his friend’s opinion of their chances, and realised quickly that the orcs knew where their greatest danger lay. Leaving Gandalf to Saruman, they had swarmed Legolas and Elladan, attempting to overwhelm them through numbers alone. Aragorn had waded in to help but Fíli did not think he would be able to turn the tide. The others could do nothing, caught in their own hard-fought battles. Kíli and Bofur were valiantly defending Bilbo, whom a number of orcs had spotted and determined to be the weakest of their foes, and they were hard pressed themselves.

Fíli never did find out if Gandalf had been making the same assessment as he had, or if chance led that to be the moment that the wizard called out to him.

‘Fíli!’ the wizard roared suddenly. ‘Lead them now. Go!’

Before Fíli could begin to wonder where he was supposed to be taking the Fellowship, or how, or why Gandalf had suddenly decided he was in charge, a sound like a thunderclap shook the edge of the forest. Fíli felt a great wave of force hurtle across the battlefield, flattening almost everything in its path. He kept his feet by sheer force of will and saw Bofur do the same. Kíli fell, as did all the rest of the Fellowship except Bilbo, who oddly seemed entirely unaffected.

The orcs had no such luck. They had all fallen, down to the last one, and the scene made Fíli think for an instant of the goblin caves and their lucky escape. There was only one difference. A complete lack of life from any of their enemies. They all seemed to be dead.

Those thoughts took, thankfully, only a fraction of a second. Even as they passed through his mind, another part was interpreting Gandalf’s words in this new light. Then Fíli gave a roar of his own.

‘All of you, up!’ he shouted to his companions. ‘We need to go now!’

To their credit, the rest of the Fellowship were on their feet in an instant. Fíli took off at a run, heading south by instinct and trusting the others to follow. His only true direction was _away_. Away from the forest, away from any orcs remaining, away from Saruman, above all, and Isengard which was no safe haven for them now. They had no other choice; south and into Rohan was their only chance.

So he ran, and the others with him, and on and on and on, they ran for what felt like hours. It was only after they had put as much distance between themselves and danger as they could, when they finally and completely ran out of strength to keep going that Fíli had time to look around.

To look around and realise that one member of the Fellowship had not left Fangorn’s eaves. That Gandalf was nowhere to be found.

***

In the end, leaving the elves behind was easier than Sméagol had expected it to be. The kind elf had been watchful and careful, but Sméagol was not his prisoner and so he was not watched as carefully as he could have been. He laid his bedroll down a short distance from his guard and waited until those about him were asleep. The sentries were alert and well-placed, but they were looking for trouble coming from without, not for one small figure within.

Sméagol was careful and he was clever and he made his exit without causing any stir at all.

After that, navigating the river was a simple enough task to contend with. Sméagol had been born of the riverfolk, he remembered now, knew boats and water the way that other hobbits knew the soil and growing things. He found himself a sturdy log that would hold his weight easily enough, found his balance and let the river do the rest.

The hardest part was staying awake. He did not wish to come ashore every night to rest, for his hobbits and his precious were far, far ahead of him and he had to be quick to catch them. So he took no rest except short naps while the river was quiet, keeping himself moving forward all the while.

The horde of orcs which were on the elf-lord’s tail worried him for a time. He allowed himself no rest at all while he swam past them, convinced that they would see him at any second and somehow know him for what he was. Sméagol was no fool. He had understood that the elf-lord’s argument about Sméagol attracting the nightmares’ attention was in part an attempt to get Sméagol away from precious. He also knew that the elf-lord believed his claim that precious had left some mark upon Sméagol. Sméagol himself thought it was sensible idea. If precious had left another voice in his head, why not a magic mark that revealed that Sméagol had loved precious for years and years? So he worried, as he passed the orcs, fearing he would be discovered.

In the end, after moving past them with no trouble at all, he repeated aloud what he had told his hobbits many times, ‘Orcses is stupid.’ He missed his hobbits even more when he received no reply. Sméagol did not like being on his own. He wanted his Merry and his Pippin.

Sméagol followed the river for three days and three nights, without food or sleep. He was hungry, so hungry, and out of practice at being hungry now. He wanted to come ashore as soon as he was past the gold trees, to go and find a rabbit for eating. He had decided in Rivendell that rabbits really were better when they were cooked, but he was hungry enough he might not have bothered to cook one first. He forced himself to be patient though. Sméagol had not come this far to risk falling behind his hobbits now. He kept going until he saw a dark forest, then a little further still, finally paddling his way to the bank when the river began to turn away from the forest. He did not want to lose his way.

Once he had found food and had another nap he felt much better. Then he ran as fast as he could across the wild open spaces towards the dark forest. He would wait for his hobbits on the other side, where it would be easier to see them if he watched carefully. Sméagol’s eyes were more used to the dark than the light, but he would not give up now. He would find his hobbits soon.

Then he would give them a scolding that would put one of Merry’s to shame. Hobbits should _listen_ to Sméagol.

******


	15. Wayward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of a number of decisions play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate chapter summaries. They're always so difficult, which is why this one is terrible. Hopefully you all just ignore them by now.
> 
> Oh, they talk a lot in this one. This will surprise absolutely no one :D

Chapter Fourteen: Wayward

Bilbo was not too proud to admit that his first emotion upon realising that Gandalf had been left behind was panic. The wizard had been a touchstone in his life ever since the Company had retaken Erebor. In the ten years that Bilbo had spent stubbornly insisting that the Shire could still be home, Gandalf had often appeared to visit. Not for more than a day, in general, as he bustled from place to place across Middle Earth, but always staying long enough to take tea and share the latest news. He had spoilt Frodo shamelessly, ignoring all of Bilbo’s scolding on the subject, making sure he always had fireworks to hand or a story of adventures to share. For Bilbo his presence had ever been reassuring, especially as Gandalf had a knack for turning up at times when Bilbo’s nightmares about Smaug were at their worst.

Bilbo had never quite been able to shake the feeling that something terrible had been meant to happen that day. That somehow the Company had escaped a far worse fate. It had manifested in nightmares for a number of years; normally ones where another member of the Company died whilst Bilbo made futile efforts to stab Smaug through the heart. It made more sense now he knew about Thorin’s first quest but in those Shire years Gandalf had been the one who gently or not-so-gently reminded him that what was done was done and fretting about what had not happened would help no one.

Bilbo was trying to keep that in mind now, as he listened to Bofur explain to the rest of the Fellowship what he had seen before they fled.

‘He brought that light and noise just the way he did in the goblin caves,’ Bofur told them certainly. ‘It started at his staff and it seemed as if it blasted everything in its path. It wasn’t as easy for him as the spell he cast in the caves though,’ Bofur continued. ‘How he managed to control it so it didn’t kill the rest of us I don’t know. Maybe it didn’t kill all of the orcs after all. It must have taken a lot out of him. He fell, but he took Saruman down with him. That was all I saw before we started to run.’

‘So he’s still back there,’ Bilbo heard himself say. ‘Gandalf used too much of his strength to be able to run when we did. We will need to go back and get him. One of you will be able to give him enough healing to get him on his feet, won’t you?’ he asked the two elves.

‘Bilbo,’ Fíli said carefully, which made Bilbo immediately suspicious, ‘I don’t think Gandalf wanted us to go back.’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Fíli,’ Bilbo snapped at him. ‘Of course he wanted us to go back. I highly doubt Gandalf’s plan involved him lying on the ground for hours until he was strong enough to get up.’

‘He told us to go, Master Bilbo,’ Aragorn replied instead of Fíli. ‘Gandalf has had thousands of years to understand the effects of his magic and he told Fíli quite clearly to lead us away, just before he cast that spell. He knew he would not be able to move after casting it. He did not mean to leave.’

Bilbo paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. He was almost certain he knew what Aragorn was implying. Almost, but he wanted to be sure.

‘You mean to say that he expected to be left behind?’ Bilbo asked cautiously, looking straight at the Ranger.

‘I mean that I believe he expected to die there, Master Bilbo,’ Aragorn corrected. Bilbo felt as if he had taken a blow to the stomach. All of his breath left him as he stared the Man in horror. Gandalf would not have done such a thing. Would he? If he truly thought the situation were desperate, would he have…?

‘We don’t know that,’ Alnir said into the quiet that followed. Aragorn began to speak again and Alnir held up his hand. ‘I’m not saying that your idea is without merit, Aragorn, only that we can’t know for certain. I don’t know about the rest of you, but magic is not an area I can claim to understand at all.’

‘Can we risk being wrong?’ Kíli asked quietly. ‘If he is alive and we leave him to Saruman’s mercy we’ll have given Saruman a mighty weapon to use against us.’

‘Gandalf could not be turned against us no matter what power Saruman has at his disposal,’ Legolas argued, but Elladan was already shaking his head.

‘Saruman’s power is in his voice, Legolas,’ the other elf said quietly. ‘Father has told us so more than once. He could talk the birds out of the trees, literally from what I have heard, and they would come happily. If he could turn Gandalf’s mind we would be in trouble indeed.’

‘But it is Gandalf,’ Bilbo protested. ‘He is more stubborn than Thranduil and Thorin put together, which I would not have thought was possible had I not seen it. The whole reason we gave him the Arkenstone was because he would never give it up to anyone…’

Bilbo trailed off at this point, distracted by his concern as Fíli blanched.

‘If he could be convinced to give Saruman the Arkenstone,’ Fíli said to them all in a horrified tone. ‘If he could bring whatever magic that thing contains to bear upon the dwarves, the whole dwarven army could fall before him.’

‘Fíli you are jumping at shadows,’ Bilbo pointed out firmly. ‘Gandalf is not so easily tricked, nor did we ever figure out if the Arkenstone was magical or not.’

‘Except that Gandalf told us Saruman was nowhere nearby and he was wrong,’ Sigrid pointed out with terrible gentleness. ‘Bilbo, he thought there were no orcs in Dol Guldur and he was wrong. There are magics more powerful than Gandalf’s in the world, we have been shown that.’

‘If Gandalf is already dead then, though I hate to do it, we would be fools not to continue on and make for Mordor,’ Aragorn stated. ‘We have the safety of all Middle Earth resting upon us.’

‘If he is not already dead and is taken by our enemies then we would be fools to leave him in their hands,’ Alnir responded. ‘He knows all that we plan, every idea that was proposed at the Council. All possibility of surprising Sauron would be lost. We would have orcs on our trail ceaselessly. We would never make it to Mordor alive.’

‘He is right,’ Kíli agreed, tone deliberately neutral despite his words. ‘It would be a disaster.’

For moments no one spoke. Then Legolas looked around the group and sighed.

‘For all of our disagreements earlier,’ he glanced up at the sky for a moment, as if checking it was still the same day. Bilbo could not blame him. It felt as if a lifetime had passed, ‘we do have a problem. We have relied upon Gandalf to lead us and now he cannot do so. For all to have their say is wonderful, but in the end a decision must be made and we have no one to make it.’

Still silence reigned. Some members of the party shuffled awkwardly, refusing to look at each other. The quiet grew tense and uncomfortable.

‘Elladan, you will need to lead us,’ Fíli said just as it became unbearable. ‘We cannot ask Bilbo, he has enough to contend with fighting the ring’s evil when it decides to pull another of its little tricks. You’re the oldest and probably the most experienced when it comes to magic and the sort of evil we are going to face. If the rest of you agree?’

Fíli copied Legolas, looking at them in turn, and no one disagreed. Elladan looked at Fíli for a long time before he nodded.

‘I will take comfort in the knowledge that you will be there to argue with me if you feel it necessary,’ he answered wryly and the decision was made. Elladan seemed to straighten, somehow, though he had hardly been slouching before.

‘We go back,’ Elladan told them. ‘We do so as carefully as possible, but we must at least try to find out what happened. Legolas, mellon nin, we will need you to scout ahead. Do not go too far though. We should stay together as much as possible.’

Legolas nodded his agreement and with that they started back the way they had come. Bilbo knew he would be on edge the entire time they were travelling, that the feeling of going in the wrong direction was unlikely to go away, but he would ignore it. They could not leave Gandalf behind.

***

It felt as if they had been stood staring at Gandalf’s staff for hours, Pippin thought. Treebeard had set them on the floor not long after they had realised what they were looking at but none of them had moved since. There had been no conversation and Merry and Frodo both wore the same horrified look they had borne at the beginning.

‘What are we going to do?’ Pippin asked, mostly for the sake of getting a reaction. Hobbit statues weren’t going to accomplish anything. Merry and Frodo were going to have to move at some point.

‘I don’t know,’ Frodo said, his voice sounding entirely lost. ‘How could this happen? It’s _Gandalf_.’

‘He’s a wizard, Frodo,’ Merry said softly. ‘It doesn’t make him invulnerable. There was clearly an attack here. They must have overwhelmed him.’

‘Uncle Bilbo,’ Frodo blurted out suddenly, body beginning to shake slightly. ‘We have to find Uncle Bilbo.’

Frodo swiftly began to move away and Merry jolted into motion, catching him by the wrist to stop him.

‘Frodo, don’t,’ he said quickly. ‘We don’t know what’s out there. We don’t even know where to start looking. _Stop!_ ’ he cried at the end, when Frodo seemed inclined to ignore him. Pippin hurried over and moved to stand in front of Frodo, hoping to get him to slow down at least. In the end the problem was solved for them. One moment Frodo was charging ahead, the next his feet were lifting from the ground.

‘That is enough of that, Master Hobbit,’ Treebeard said gently. ‘You will not help your uncle by running off haphazardly and getting yourself hurt. Slow down and think.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Frodo almost-shouted, ‘you have all the time in the world. You don’t have to worry about someone dy…’

Frodo trailed off as he realised what he had been about to say, much to Pippin’s relief. Offending Treebeard was the last thing they needed to do right now.

‘It is hard to be so young,’ Treebeard responded mildly. ‘It is the same for saplings. Always so convinced that they are the first to suffer a harsh frost, or to lose a branch to an animal’s nest. We have all lost, Master Frodo. All in our own ways. Now, peace. Let us think what we are going to do.’

‘What can we do, Treebeard?’ Pippin asked worriedly. ‘How will we ever find them? We thought we would be able to see from here but I can’t see anything.’

‘Now that is not true, Master Pippin,’ Treebeard scolded. ‘You can see a great many things and what you cannot see will help you as well. You can see the wizard’s staff, certainly, but what can you not see?’

Pippin stared at him in befuddlement. Sometimes it seemed as if every adult in the world was determined to speak in riddles. Merry had better not get like this as they got older. Pippin would refuse to talk to him.

‘There aren’t any other weapons,’ Merry answered slowly, gazing around them. ‘Except the orcish ones. There are a _lot_ of dead orcs though. Nearly fifty, I’d say.’

Frodo had been set down again and he was examining the nearest orc dispassionately. Pippin was trying very hard not to look at them, disgusting as they were, but Frodo seemed unconcerned.

‘This one doesn’t have any wounds,’ he told Treebeard, nudging the orc’s body with his foot to get a look at its front. ‘None at all from what I can see. It’s just dead.’

‘So it wasn’t killed in battle then, not a normal battle anyway,’ Merry said to Frodo.

‘Gandalf killed them,’ Pippin stated, though he was only half convinced. ‘All of them? Could he even do that?’

‘Perhaps,’ Treebeard answered him, ‘had he the will to do it. His magic would be constrained by the flesh he was housed in.’

That sounded rather distressingly like a suggestion that Gandalf would have had to leave his body behind to kill the orcs, which in turn sounded quite a lot like death. Pippin didn’t like this at all. There was a slight buzzing noise nearby and he wondered if flies were starting to find the bodies. That made him feel sick, so he made a determined effort to ignore the noise completely.

‘None of the Fellowship’s other weapons are here,’ Merry said more decisively then. At some point he had picked up Gandalf’s staff, though he could barely keep it off the ground even when he was holding it crossways. ‘Or any of them, either.’

‘Well that’s good,’ Pippin said, mostly to himself, looking around but not really taking anything in. ‘If they’re not here then they probably left in one piece.’

‘Yes,’ Frodo answered seriously, startling Pippin, ‘but did they leave or were they taken?’

‘I think I have the answer to that question, Master Frodo,’ Treebeard announced, staring to the south. ‘For here they come now.’

‘They’re coming?’ Frodo asked hopefully, though he somehow managed to look nervous at the same time. ‘Truly?’

‘My eyes may be old, Master Frodo,’ the ent said firmly, ‘but they work well enough. Your uncle and his friends are approaching.’

One moment Pippin was standing and the next he found himself sitting on the ground, much to his surprise. Merry hurried over and crouched next to him.

‘Pip, are you alright?’ he asked worriedly.

‘Oh,’ Pippin said, voice sounding dazed even to his own ears, ‘Merry, I think my legs stopped working.’ Merry just looked at him for a moment, then shook his head.

‘You’re fine,’ Merry told him, patting his shoulder. ‘Just sit down for a bit while we wait for the others to come.’

Pippin wasn’t sure he could have done anything else, so it was probably a good thing Merry wasn’t planning to make him move. He felt… not dizzy, exactly, but slightly woozy; as if he’d been awake a very long time and now his mind didn’t want to concentrate on anything.

‘Merry, is he sick?’ Pippin heard Frodo ask.

‘He’s fine,’ Merry repeated. ‘I think he’s just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. We’ve never seen orcs before, certainly not dead ones. It’s strange.’

Frodo nodded, glanced at Pippin one more time and then hurried back to Treebeard to ask more questions about the Fellowship and what he could see. Pippin decided to lie down for a moment and then decided that he was going to stay there for a while. The world was spinning a little bit and the spinning slowed down once he was on the ground. He closed his eyes and just lay there quietly, waiting for the world to go back to normal.

***

The next thing he heard was a furious shout from rather close by.

‘ _Frodo Baggins_!’ a familiar voice bellowed. ‘What exactly do you think you are doing?’

Pippin came awake with a start and shot to his feet entirely by instinct. He wobbled slightly once he got there, a white flash in his vision making him feel all dizzy again, but didn’t fall. Someone had hold of his arm and kept him upright.

‘Easy, lad,’ a calm, cheerful voice said. ‘You stood up too quickly. You need to let your body get used to these things.’

When the white went away, Pippin saw the miner who was friends with Bilbo stood next to him. Just like that his mind started working properly again and he realised who had been doing the shouting.

‘Is Bilbo going to kill him?’ Pippin asked the miner (Master Bofur, his mind supplied) half-seriously.

‘I imagine he’s going to have a good go at it, lad,’ Master Bofur answered. ‘The three of you have been very foolish, you realise?’

‘We aren’t foolish,’ Pippin objected. ‘We’ve come to help and we haven’t had anything bad happen to us.’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ Master Bofur responded. ‘We’ve been ahead of you dealing with all of the problems before you got there.’

Pippin wished he could dispute this, but his mind had chosen that moment to remember the incident with the cage the trees had made and Treebeard having to rescue them and he thought twice about it. The less said about that particular hiccup the better.

Master Bofur didn’t say anything else. He seemed to be distracted by the scene being enacted between Bilbo and Frodo.

‘You _lied_ to me,’ Bilbo was shouting at Frodo furiously. ‘We sat in Lothlórien that night and you flat-out lied to me when I said goodbye. You never had the smallest intention of staying with Thorin, did you?’

‘Uncle Dwalin said that I should come,’ Frodo argued equally loudly. ‘He said you would need help.’

‘Help?’ Bilbo exclaimed, throwing both arms wide. ‘What do you think these lot are, Frodo? Chopped liver? I have help right here. What I do not need is anyone else to worry about on this death-trap of a journey. Especially not a faunt too silly to pay attention to those who know better than he does and who endangers others into the bargain.’

At this point Bilbo pointed at Merry, who was stood not far from him, and then at Pippin. Pippin felt a fair amount of indignation. If they wanted to endanger themselves then that was up to them. Bilbo had no right to be shouting at them about it. Maybe he had a right to shout at Frodo, admittedly, but not at Pippin and Merry.

‘I’m not a faunt,’ Frodo started to protest, but the words didn’t come out properly because of the tears in his throat. Pippin started forward to go and join the argument, but Master Bofur held him back.

‘No need to worry, lad,’ he said easily. ‘The boys have it under control.’

Before Pippin could ask who ‘the boys’ were and point out that they did not seem to have it under control, Bilbo response to Frodo was broken off sharply.

‘Bilbo, _enough!_ ’ a voice cut in, silencing Bilbo almost instantly. Pippin quickly identified the speaker as Prince Kíli, who was now moving to stand in front of Frodo and shield him from Bilbo’s glare. ‘You’ve made your point, more shouting isn’t going to change the fact that Frodo’s here.’

‘He disobeyed me,’ Bilbo argued.

‘He’s an adult,’ Prince Kíli responded.

‘He’s a child,’ Bilbo broke in instantly. He clearly had more to say but Prince Kíli did not let him continue.

‘No more than I was,’ he told Bilbo flatly, face completely inscrutable as he stared Bilbo down when the hobbit scowled at him.

‘It is not the same,’ Bilbo answered, but this time it was Prince Fíli who answered.

‘It is very much the same, Bilbo,’ he commented evenly, coming to stand next to his brother. ‘Kíli is right, shouting won’t change it now.’ Bilbo stood mute for some time, then turned and stormed away. The stick that had previously been holding Prince Kíli’s back straight seemed to disappear. Pippin moved forward again and this time Master Bofur did not stop him. He arrived their just in time to hear Prince Kíli tell his brother,

‘This is going to be messy.’

‘I know,’ Prince Fíli responded. ‘Can you handle him?’

‘I’ll take Bofur with me,’ Prince Kíli answered. ‘Maybe Sigrid as well. He’s always more careful in front of the children.’

Lady Sigrid laughed, flicking Prince Kíli on the end of his nose when he turned around.

‘I’m nearly forty, Kíli,’ she pointed out in amusement. ‘We aren’t the children anymore.’

‘You are to him,’ Prince Kíli explained innocently. ‘That’s why you’re my secret weapon. Come on.’

They moved away and Prince Fíli turned back to look at Frodo, who still had silent tears running down his face and seemed to be past the point of being embarrassed by them. Prince Fíli sighed harshly, then reached out and pulled Frodo into a hug, which the hobbit returned fiercely.

‘I came to help,’ Frodo whispered desperately as they stood there, Prince Fíli rocking them back and forth slightly.

‘I know, little cousin,’ Prince Fíli said patiently. ‘You knew he would be angry though.’

Frodo didn’t answer and they stayed that way a minute or two more. Then Prince Fíli loosened his hold and Frodo stepped back.

‘You aren’t lying when you say Dwalin sent you?’ Prince Fíli asked Frodo seriously, face stern. He looked like a Prince now, just as Prince Kíli had earlier when he faced Bilbo down. Pippin wouldn’t have wanted to lie to him.

‘I’m not,’ Frodo replied. Prince Fíli considered him a little longer and Merry came and stood next to Frodo. When Pippin saw Merry move he came over as well.

‘Master Dwalin sent all of us,’ Merry told Prince Fíli solemnly. ‘He thought that Bilbo would struggle with the ring and that he’d need all the help he could get. He checked our training and said we were better at swordplay than Bilbo was when he first left the Shire.’

‘Well that would be true enough, assuming you’ve had any training at all,’ Prince Fíli conceded, face softening now, though not by much. ‘Frodo is certainly a lot better than Bilbo was. You’ll all improve though. You’ll have training with Kíli and me every morning while we travel. No shirking, no excuses. If you want to join this quest then you’ll make sure you won’t hamper us. You do the same chores we do, you take the watches and make sure you don’t sleep. If you really need to stop then you tell us, but I won’t put up with complaining that we’re too hard on you. Understood?’

‘We’ve been doing all that since we left Lothlórien,’ Merry told him. ‘Without the training, anyway,’ he corrected fairly. ‘We won’t slow you down.’

‘No,’ Prince Fíli said slowly, looking them over one more time, ‘I don’t think you will. Right, you might as well come with me to talk to Elladan and Treebeard. You might be able to tell us some more of what happened after we fled.’

With that, it seemed, the conversation was done. Pippin couldn’t decide if it had gone better or worse than he had been expecting.

***

Sometimes it seemed as if Kíli was fated to be surrounded by people who loved to have blazing rows about things on a regular basis. Why his family and friends were so enamoured with shouting at one another he didn’t know. For the most part, Kíli much preferred just telling someone, usually Fíli, that they were being really annoying and then leaving it at that. There had been exceptions, of course. He and Fíli had argued fairly loudly after Glóin had killed the Master, but they were only exceptions.

Normally Kíli could rely on Bilbo to keep calm and work with him to avoid arguments. Not today, apparently. Kíli’s luck was failing spectacularly today.

‘He isn’t staying,’ Bilbo said angrily when Kíli approached with Bofur and Sigrid not far behind him. Kíli sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy.

‘He has to stay, Bilbo,’ Sigrid answered. Kíli could have kissed her for rescuing him from Bilbo’s inevitable wrath. ‘If we send them back alone then there’s no telling what could be waiting for them behind us. There were an entire army of orcs near Lothlórien a few days ago. They could have given up the chase and returned there. The Witch King could have called the other Nazgûl and be coming back this way. We just don’t know.’

‘Nor do we know what lies ahead,’ Bilbo said snippily. ‘Oh, except we do. Mordor and Sauron. Neither of which will be at all safe for them.’

‘But we will be there,’ Bofur pointed out, ‘and we can try to protect them. Bilbo, we need to find out what happened to Gandalf and we need to get the ring to Mordor. I don’t want the young ones in danger any more than you do, but we don’t have time to take them back and if we send them alone we have no guarantee that they’ll actually go. Frodo has proven himself as stubborn as his Uncle once. He might easily do so again.’

‘I would never have done something so foolish,’ Bilbo informed Bofur tartly. Kíli could almost see the cogs whirring in his head, thinking through what they were saying.

‘You walked into Erebor alone to face a dragon,’ Bofur reminded him with equal wryness.

‘You cannot use that to win every argument,’ Bilbo responded. Bofur just looked at him. Kíli laughed, though he had not meant to.

‘Yes,’ he told Bilbo patiently, ‘we most definitely can.’

‘It was all Gandalf’s…’ Bilbo began, then stopped suddenly, closing his eyes. When he opened them again they were full of anxiety and an edge of despair.

‘We have already lost one member of our Fellowship,’ he said quietly to Kíli. ‘What if we lose Frodo as well?’

Kíli spent some time thinking about what he wanted to say before he replied. This was important, he knew, and while he might wish Balin or Ori or Uncle Thorin were here to say it for him, Kíli was going to have to do it himself.

‘We might,’ he acknowledged, not taking his eyes off Bilbo’s face. ‘We might lose him or we might lose you. We could all die, or none of us could. Gandalf might already be dead, or he might not. We can’t know, Bilbo, in the end. Nobody knows these things. We just have to take the chance. We’ve managed impossible tasks before and come out mostly unscathed.’

‘It wasn’t Frodo before,’ Bilbo said sadly.

‘No,’ Bofur agreed, ‘it was you. Which made that journey easier for you, but not for the rest of us.’

‘Waiting in the Mountain while you all went into battle was not exactly easy,’ Bilbo contradicted, though there was only a little heat in his tone now.

‘But you survived it and we all did as well,’ Bofur told him. ‘It can be done. He’s old enough to make the decision, Bilbo, and he’s made it. You can’t protect him forever.’

Kíli all but held his breath, hoping against hope that Bofur had said the right thing. It was always nerve-wracking when you asked Bofur to help with something like this.

‘Fine,’ Bilbo said wearily after an age. ‘Let him come and the other two as well. You’re right about one thing, at least. Having them continue to wander about alone is far too dangerous. As is standing around here all day arguing about it. It’s starting to get dark and we need to decide what we’re going to do about Gandalf. Spending the night here would not be a good idea.’

‘On that we can all agree,’ Sigrid replied with some relief. ‘It looks as if Elladan and the others have been conferring with Treebeard. We should go and see what they have to say.’

One disaster averted, Kíli thought to himself as they walked away. Time to see what the next one would look like. Like Saruman, probably, he mused grimly. The wizard had a lot to answer for.

***

‘There now, lass,’ Bofur said to Sigrid as they walked back to the rest of the Fellowship, rubbing her arm comfortingly, ‘I told you it would be fine. Bilbo doesn’t get angry often so he tends to boil over with a lot of noise and fuss, but it never lasts long.’

Sigrid would have been ashamed to admit to any of the others, except possibly Alnir, how nervous Bilbo’s anger had made her. It had been the surprise, mostly. She had never known Bilbo to be truly angry. He griped a little, mostly at Thorin, but it was always teasing as much as anything. Thorin never took offence and it all stayed very friendly.

When Bilbo had suddenly exploded, she had thought that perhaps the ring was making its presence felt. That sort of abrupt change of character seemed like the sort of thing that Lord Elrond was warning them about. The things that the ring could do to someone.

It did not help that she could hear the damned thing calling to her. It was horrid, utterly vile, suggesting things that made her feel sick to her stomach. To take Bofur and bend him to her will. To cast her father and Bain off Dale’s throne and make it her own. To force all those who had ever told her she could not fight to see that they were wrong. To punish those who had called her a whore behind her back, convinced she was lying with every man she led into battle.

It was sickening and terrifying, because it made her wonder where the ideas had come from. What could the ring see in her that made it think she would accept such things?

She had spoken briefly of it to Alnir a day or two back as they had walked and he had admitted he could hear the ring as well. It did not speak to him as it did to Sigrid, though. To Alnir it was only a hissing noise he could not parse.

So when Bilbo had raged at Frodo and brought him to tears, Sigrid had wondered if maybe it wasn’t her alone. She had whispered to Bofur, asking if Bilbo had ever been this angry before and he had, somehow, known exactly what she was asking. He always seemed to, despite his reputation for thoughtlessness. There was only one thing about her he had never truly understood, but sometimes Sigrid wondered if he did understand and simply chose to pretend he didn’t.

‘Sometimes,’ Bofur had answered briefly. ‘Not often. It’s just because he’s worried for Frodo. It isn’t anger, it’s fear. He shouted at Thorin like this when he nearly got himself beheaded by a goblin a few years back because he was too busy trying to keep an eye on one of the new guards. Don’t fret. That ring’s not strong enough to turn either of you evil.’

Sigrid wished she could believe it as deeply as Bofur did.

For now, however, they had a more pressing problem than her worries. Isengard.

‘He must be stopped,’ the ent was saying as Sigrid, Bofur and Kíli approached. ‘I will not allow him to continue killing in this manner.’

‘We understand, Master Treebeard, truly,’ Elladan promised him. ‘We feel the same way and we need to save Gandalf if he has been taken. We also cannot have Saruman building an army behind us as we journey on. We are concerned about how to stop him though.’

‘The ents have not marched to war for an age, Master Elladan,’ Treebeard announced, ‘but we have not grown feeble in that time. We will deal with Saruman.’

‘No doubt,’ Fíli cut in, ‘but would it not be better to have the support of those who can prevent him using magic against you, Master Treebeard? Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn are not far from here, not as an ent walks. They would help you. If you could give us the time to get a message to Rohan, the horse-lords would no doubt answer as well. Thengel will not want such evil on his border any more than you do.’

‘Saruman might well commit further crimes while I am waiting for this help to arrive,’ Treebeard objected.

‘Not if the ents are waiting for him at the edge of the forest, Treebeard,’ Merry argued. ‘You could have some of the others keep watch, couldn’t you? We aren’t suggesting that you let him hurt the forest any more than he has. It’s just that there are so few of you now. If you had help you might not lose any of your friends in the fight.’

Treebeard pondered for a while before responding.

‘Perhaps you are right, Master Merry,’ he said at length. ‘There are very few of us now and it would not do to be careless with the lives of those who remain. You say that Lady Galadriel would help?’ he asked Elladan.

‘She is my grandmother,’ Elladan responded. ‘I promise you, she will help. Saruman fears her as well, or so I believe. He will be far more wary if she accompanies you.’

‘Very well,’ Treebeard agreed at last. ‘I will go to Lothlórien and speak to its Lord and Lady. Let Saruman think he has won this battle. We will teach him otherwise soon enough.’

‘You could take Frodo, Merry and Pippin back with you,’ Bilbo suggested immediately. Sigrid cursed internally. They should have thought of that argument before now.

‘No,’ the youngest hobbit, Pippin, countered with great certainty, ‘he could not, for we will not go. We did not travel all this way to turn back now. If you try to send us with Treebeard then we will just leave him and come back again.’

Bilbo opened his mouth, doubtless to say that Treebeard was perfectly capable of preventing them from running away, when Treebeard himself intervened.

‘I am not a gaoler, Master Hobbit,’ the ent stated. ‘I will not keep them with me if that is not where they wish to be. I am on an errand of my own now and chasing after them would slow me down. I am sorry, but in this I cannot help you.’

Bilbo looked downcast. The younger hobbits were trying to be subtle in their happiness. Merry was doing rather better than the other two, but it was still fairly obvious.

‘Farewell, young ones,’ Treebeard said to them then. When first they met Sigrid had had the impression that ents lived their lives rather slowly, but Treebeard was certainly decisive enough now. ‘I wish you luck. I will march upon Isengard when I return to the forest. If there are others here to help, all the better. If not, the ents will go alone.’

With that he walked away, his huge strides carrying him swiftly into the forest and out of sight.

‘How, exactly, are we going to send a messenger to Rohan?’ was the first comment after Treebeard’s exit. It came from Alnir, aimed at Fíli, and the dwarf flushed a very light pink at the question.

‘What have the lot of you been up to while we were not here?’ Bilbo asked then, encompassing Elladan, who looked equally guilty, in his scrutiny.

‘Ah, well, Fíli and I were going to talk to you about that,’ Elladan said hurriedly, then stopped as if he was not sure how to continue.

‘Aragorn and I will take our share of the blame as well,’ Legolas said equably when Elladan didn’t say anything further. ‘We were discussing our concerns on the way here and we think we may need to split up.’

Suddenly they were all talking at once, Sigrid as much to blame as any of the others. She had exclaimed, ‘Split up? Are you mad?’ before she even realised she intended to speak.

Whether the sound of their outrage had covered other sounds, or if their latest unexpected visitor was simply that quiet, Sigrid wasn’t sure. The first she knew of his arrival was his irritated exclamation.

‘Hobbits should not be here,’ Sméagol reprimanded irately, facing Merry and Pippin with a severe expression. ‘Hobbits was supposed to stay with the beautiful elf!’

‘Oh for the Valar’s _sake_!’ Bilbo erupted after a beat. ‘Would anybody else like to join us? Sauron, perhaps? He could hardly cause more trouble!’

******


	16. Bound and Determined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You cannot make another's choices for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters that almost seemed to write itself, so I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. Any comments are welcome, as always. There's nothing better than seeing kudos and comment emails appear :D
> 
> Thank you, ISeeFire, for the snarky commentary and for the Majestic seal of approval :P

Chapter Fifteen: Bound and Determined

Merry heard Pippin groan aloud at the same moment he released a groan of his own. He was beginning to think that he, Pippin and Frodo really had been wrong to come along on the quest. It was the only explanation he could think of; surely _someone_ was punishing them.

‘Sméagol, you were supposed to go with Lord Elrond,’ he tried in the vain hope that he might be able to divert Sméagol from his obvious ire. He hadn’t really expected it to work, which saved him from a severe disappointment.

‘Sméagol did go with elf-lord,’ their friend snapped out, copying Esmeralda Brandybuck’s crossed-arm stance with perfect mimicry. ‘ _Sméagol_ did as he was told! Then elf-lord said that hobbits had left the gold trees, so Sméagol had to come and make sure hobbits not dead!’

‘We’re not,’ Pippin said hopefully. ‘We’re both fine, so you can go back now.’

The look Sméagol gave Pippin then could have frozen Mount Doom solid. Pippin wilted visibly and Merry felt himself do the same, even though the look wasn’t actually directed at him.

‘If silly hobbits can’t do as they’re told,’ Sméagol ground out, ‘Sméagol will not be leaving them to _gallivant_ around wild places alone.’ Merry wondered who had used the word gallivant around Sméagol recently, then thought about the context it had probably been used in and decided he didn’t really want to know.

‘Which shows that Sméagol has an ounce of common sense even if the two of you don’t,’ Bilbo joined in, giving Merry and Pippin an equally stern look. Merry said something in his head that would have had his mother forcing him to scrub every floor in Brandy Hall. Up until then Bilbo had been too focused on Frodo to concern himself with Merry and Pippin overmuch. No longer, apparently.

‘Entertaining as it is to watch the two of you get the scolding you so richly deserve,’ Elladan broke in then, ‘we are still out in the open not far from the scene of a recent battle. I think we had best move on before we continue this conversation any further.’

A number of the Fellowship nodded their agreement and Bilbo snagged Frodo by the arm and began marching him along, showing no signs of letting go any time soon. Frodo, aware that he would not be out of trouble for another few centuries, uttered not a word of protest.

Sméagol stared for a long moment at Merry and Pippin, then pointed sharply in Elladan’s direction. Even as he began to walk, Merry wondered when Sméagol had become the adult among the three of them. Up until now Sméagol and Pippin had been causing joyous havoc wherever they went while Merry tried to contain some of the resulting chaos. Now, suddenly, Sméagol seemed to possess every one of his many years and Merry felt like the child. It was a strange feeling, made even stranger by the fact that it also felt somehow right. After a few seconds he brushed the thought away entirely. Right now Elladan was correct. They needed to get away from Fangorn.

***

An hour or two of walking later, Elladan decided that they had gone far enough for now. Full dark was beginning to set in and those without an uncanny ability to see in the dark were beginning to stumble. Alnir had begun counting the number of times he and Sigrid had tripped at some point and when they finally stopped he proudly declared himself the winner. Whether the contest had been to stay standing or to stumble most often none of the others were able to tell. Sigrid pretended he had said nothing with the ease of long practice.

Setting up camp went swiftly with so many experienced hands to help. Merry made sure that he and Pippin got themselves sorted without any help, knowing that they very much had something to prove to the rest of the Fellowship. Whether any of the others noticed he wasn’t sure, but he felt better for having done it.

Sheltered as they were in the lee of a series of curved rocks, Elladan declared them safe enough to light a fire and they all gathered round eagerly. The weather was not yet bad, but the dark had brought a sharp chill with it. Warmth was not the only reason for the decision though. That much became clear very quickly.

‘Sméagol,’ Elladan said calmly not long after they had gathered round, ‘while I can fully understand the desire to get hold of Merry and Pippin and shake some sense into them,’ Merry swallowed a noise of protest instinctively, loathe to draw further attention to himself, ‘you were asked to remain with Father for good reason.’

Elladan said nothing more, merely left the thought hanging there between them. Sméagol did not speak, but he seemed to be pondering more than ignoring Elladan’s words.

‘Dwarves not trust Sméagol,’ he responded at length. ‘Dwarf king angry, very angry with picture dwarf, but glared at Sméagol most. Picture dwarf not glare, just watched. Always watching. Sméagol sees. Sméagol understands. Dwarves not trust Sméagol with hobbit.’

Here Sméagol gestured at Bilbo, who sighed heavily.

‘Sméagol, just for ease, you had best call me Bilbo,’ he said, though Merry did not think for a moment that that was his greatest concern. ‘There are a lot of hobbits here suddenly.’

‘Bilbo,’ Sméagol repeated softly. ‘Dwarves not trust Sméagol with Bilbo.’

‘No doubt they did not,’ Bilbo stated then. ‘You did try to kill me. They will not forgive that easily, if at all.’

‘No,’ Sméagol answered. ‘Other-Sméagol not good. Does bad things.’

‘Other-Sméagol?’ Elladan asked, voice as quiet as Bilbo and Sméagol’s had become. Merry thought everyone felt the same way he did, as if a hush had settled and too loud a noise would shatter what that hush had brought with it.

‘Precious brought other-Sméagol with it,’ Sméagol explained. Merry listened carefully, fascinated to hear what Sméagol thought of the two parts of himself that Merry and Pippin had noticed almost as soon as they had met him. ‘Other-Sméagol is angry, nasty, hates everything but precious. We doesn’t…’ he paused, then began again, ‘ _Sméagol_ doesn’t like other-Sméagol. Can’t make him go though. Been with us…,’ again a pause, ‘with me too long. Too hard.’

‘Then you understand why you cannot stay with us,’ Elladan said gently. If he thought that was to be the end of it, he was to be mistaken, though.

‘Have to stay,’ Sméagol said firmly, no hint of compromise in his voice. ‘Merry and Pippin is too silly for wild places. Need Sméagol to guard them.’

‘We have lots of people to guard us,’ Pippin argued, but Sméagol countered swiftly.

‘Lots of people to guard Bilbo,’ he insisted. ‘People to guard small-Bilbo,’ Frodo made a choking noise but Bilbo glared him quiet. ‘Not to guard Merry and Pippin. Too busy. Bilbo too important.’

‘We would try,’ Bofur pointed out, though his gaze on Sméagol was wary. ‘We’ve nothing against the young ones, we would protect them as best we can.’

‘Have to protect Bilbo first,’ Sméagol maintained. ‘More important than Merry and Pippin.’

For the first time since Sméagol had appeared in front of them, he gave Merry and Pippin a kinder glance. He did not mean it as an insult, Merry knew. Simply as a fact.

‘He has a point,’ Prince Fíli acknowledged. ‘We would have to protect Bilbo first and foremost.’

‘Not Sméagol,’ Sméagol informed them. ‘Sméagol look after his hobbits first.’

‘But can we trust you to do only that?’ Strider asked after a pause. ‘Can we trust that Merry and Pippin will be more important than your precious in the end, Sméagol?’

‘Yes,’ Sméagol said baldly, looking Strider straight in the eye. ‘Sméagol not let Merry and Pippin get hurt.’

‘I think we have to take his word for it, as far as we can,’ Prince Legolas said unhappily, looking older than he normally did. ‘We have the same problem everywhere we turn. The young ones cannot be sent back alone, for there is evil out there they would not be able to defeat. If we send them back with Sméagol there is no saying he would be able to protect them completely. If we keep them with us but send him away, we have no way of knowing he has actually gone, just as we said with Frodo. Keeping him here and keeping watch is all we can do.’

If Sméagol was hurt by this blatant statement that he would remain because it was the best of a bad set of options he did not show it. He looked calmly into the fire, waiting to hear what the others would say. In the end they did not respond in words at all, merely nods or sounds of agreement.

‘Very well,’ Elladan said. ‘For now Sméagol stays with us, then. We had another conversation to have, anyway.’

‘Yes,’ Bilbo said strongly, breaking the stillness that had come over them all. ‘I do think you had best explain why we are suddenly to split up, when it was decided we would all go together for good reason.’

Elladan looked at Prince Fíli, who turned his attention to the elf, breaking the staring contest Merry had just noticed the Prince having with his brother. Prince Fíli and Elladan shared a quick glance, then Prince Fíli nodded and turned to the rest of the Fellowship.

‘With Saruman clearly turned against us, we have a problem we had not previously counted on,’ Prince Fíli announced. ‘Where before we could hope that Rohan and Gondor knew there was trouble brewing, even if they had not chosen to attend the Council, now we can be almost certain that they know nothing. Our distraction relies upon turning Sauron’s attention elsewhere and Gondor seems the likeliest place. If we arrive and they are entirely unprepared for battle we could get a great many people killed. We also need to tell Rohan that Saruman has turned against us. They share a border with him. If he sends his orcs out after us then they lie directly in his way.’

‘Mine was the idea to begin with,’ Legolas admitted, ‘and I will take the blame, if any there is. All those who knew my homeland before Thorin came to Erebor know the consequences of leaving evil to fester untended. We also know the difference between an army prepared for war and one taken entirely off its guard.’

‘Our main aim is still to get Bilbo and the ring to Mount Doom,’ Prince Kíli pointed out. ‘We have just said so. The fewer of us there to protect them, the more difficult that will be.’

‘We will be less noticeable with fewer of us,’ Prince Fíli said, but he got no further. Lady Sigrid interrupted, voice nearly a whisper and reluctance apparent.

‘I should not go any further with the ring,’ she murmured and they all turned to stare at her in startlement. All, Merry noticed, save Master Bofur.

‘Sigrid?’ Fíli queried in confusion. ‘It’s not like you to turn away partway through just because a task becomes hard.’

‘Lad,’ Master Bofur said warningly and Prince Fíli winced.

‘I didn’t mean that the way it came out,’ he said apologetically. Prince Kíli poked him, apparently in a particularly sensitive spot for Prince Fíli yelped in a very undignified manner.

‘That wasn’t an apology, Brother,’ Prince Kíli said strictly. ‘Try again.’

‘I am sorry, Sigrid. I did not mean it like that,’ Prince Fíli stated, though he smacked his brother’s hand away from his side as he said it. ‘Truly,’ he completed, looking at her once more.

‘If you had I would have saved Kíli and Bofur the trouble of reprimanding you,’ Lady Sigrid informed him. ‘As it is, I do not wish to turn away this time either. I must, though. The ring has been talking to me and it is getting worse. I do not think I should journey near it any longer. I do not _want_ to journey near it any longer. I could have lived an entire lifetime without thinking some of the things it is trying to put into my head.’

The disgust in her voice was so apparent that Merry wished he could drive whatever the ring had said to her away for good. Master Alnir apparently felt the same way. He reached out and pulled her into a one-armed hug, giving her a little shake towards the end.

‘That was not what you told me when we spoke of this the other day,’ he pointed out to her.

‘No,’ she allowed. ‘When you said you heard only whispers I hoped it might go away.’ Master Alnir gave her a look akin to the one Aunt Eglantine hard turned upon Pippin when he tried to convince her that they had not been anywhere near the Brandywine. Whilst dripping wet. Pippin was nothing if not optimistic.

‘Possibly that was not one of my better plans,’ Lady Sigrid admitted. Elladan snorted and she flicked him a look of irritation that had him raising his hands, palms turned forward.

‘Then we should perhaps send Sigrid to Rohan,’ Prince Legolas suggested. ‘We are not so far now and we did tell Treebeard we would try to gain their aid.’

‘If Lady Sigrid would be willing to do so it would solve both of our most pressing problems,’ Elladan agreed. ‘Without meaning any insult, my lady, I do not wish to find myself battling you any time soon.’

‘I shall take that as a compliment,’ Lady Sigrid said decisively, ‘and I will journey to Rohan. Legolas is right, they should not be caught off guard by Saruman. I will go with them when they make for Isengard,’ she continued, this time looking at Bilbo reassuringly. ‘If Gandalf was taken then I will do all I can to free him.’

‘We will do all we can,’ Master Bofur added. He, too, looked at Bilbo, though his look was more apologetic. ‘Bifur….’

‘Would never forgive you if she was hurt,’ Bilbo completed. ‘We know, Bofur. Go with her. I am rather fond of her myself.’

‘I am overwhelmed by your concern, gentlemen,’ Lady Sigrid said somewhat snippily. Merry noticed Master Alnir reach out subtly and grasp her hand and saw Lady Sigrid’s shoulders relax out of their hunch. He wondered why the two of them were not married. Any pair of hobbits who were so close would have been wedded years ago.

‘I think I had best go with them as well,’ Master Alnir commented evenly. ‘The ring may not speak to me but I can hear… something. Something more than the rest of you seem to be able to hear, anyway. Perhaps it would be best if we did not take chances.’

That seemed to settle the matter in the eyes of the Fellowship, for none of them disagreed and they turned almost immediately to the matter of Gondor.

‘Do we need to send anyone?’ Frodo asked reluctantly. Merry suspected Frodo felt as he did, wishing to be involved but also wishing that Bilbo would continue pretending he wasn’t there. It was far preferable to the tongue-lashing Bilbo was clearly still ready to dish out.

‘Oh, I think we do,’ Bilbo replied. ‘Thorin taught you better than that. To suddenly dump an army on a fellow ruler’s doorstep is the height of rudeness, Frodo Baggins. A little warning is the least we can give the Steward.’

‘Won’t the Steward be a bit put out if Strider suddenly turns up announcing he’s the heir to the throne, though?’ Pippin questioned. Abruptly they were all staring at him, even Merry. Then Prince Kíli began to laugh.

‘He has a point,’ Prince Kíli stated. ‘Two, in fact. Firstly, Aragorn would be the obvious choice to go to Gondor. Secondly, the Steward might well be unhappy to see him.’

‘In which case I am not the obvious choice at all,’ Strider pointed out. ‘In fact, I would be the worst choice, surely.’

‘No, little brother, I do not think you would,’ Elladan replied with laughter in his eyes if not his voice. ‘Father always planned for you to go to Gondor in the end. He feels it has been kingless far too long. Now seems as good a time as any.’

‘Elladan, for once could you attempt to consider something other than your own amusement when you say such things?’ Strider growled. Merry felt more than slightly taken aback. Strider had always been very quiet with them, but with a dry sense of humour that Merry liked immensely. He had never seen Strider irate before. ‘Causing strife in Gondor just as we are about to draw the Dark Lord’s army towards them is a terrible plan and we all know it.’

‘Admittedly, when you put it like that it seems a little less wise,’ Elladan responded seriously, ‘but my amusement has nothing to do with it. If they are to be invaded by Sauron, Estel, then they will need hope. And a good general. Both of which you could provide.’

‘If they are being ruled well then I doubt hope is in particularly short supply,’ Strider countered, ‘and no doubt Lord Ecthelion has any number of generals at his command.’

‘Lord Aragorn, do you not wish to retake your ancestor’s throne?’ Prince Fíli queried. He had a focused look on his face that reminded Merry of the look his Uncle had borne during the Council.

‘Not if it is to bring harm to my people, no,’ Strider responded instantly. Prince Fíli smiled.

‘Then I would say you are the best choice for our messenger,’ Prince Fíli concluded. ‘For if they do not need a king you will not try to force one upon them. If they do then you may reveal your heritage and see if the people wish to follow a king again. Either way, you will do what is best for them and that is the most important thing.’

Strider huffed out a breath after a moment, while all the rest watched him carefully.

‘You get your way much of the time, don’t you, Prince Fíli?’ Strider asked dryly.

‘Far too often for his own good,’ Prince Kíli said immediately. Prince Legolas and a number of the others began to laugh.

‘Being right all the time is an onerous duty,’ Prince Fíli said with mock solemnity, ‘but I bear it as best I am able.’

‘Your Uncle would have thumped you by now,’ Bilbo informed Prince Fíli under his breath.

‘Then I’m very glad he isn’t here,’ Prince Fíli retorted.

‘Estel,’ Elladan said quietly a moment later, eyes locked on his foster brother.

‘Very well,’ Strider said roughly. ‘To Gondor, then. Do not expect me to end this battle a king, though, Elladan. In all likelihood I will be as dead as the rest of my family and so, too, Isildur’s line.’

‘You will not,’ Elladan said sharply, scowling. Merry could understand why. There was a certain edge of self-pity in Strider’s tone. ‘You will do nothing that would so utterly break Arwen’s heart.’

Strider jolted and looked up from the campfire he had been staring at. He met Elladan’s gaze sheepishly, then steadied.

‘No, of course I won’t,’ he conceded. ‘It was a foolish thing to say.’

‘Hmph,’ Elladan responded, not entirely mollified. ‘I think I will go with you just to be sure. Valar knows I do not wish to be the one telling Arwen you did something ridiculously self-sacrificing. Fíli, you will be well enough taking Bilbo to Mordor, will you not?’

‘Considering you were all so focused upon looking out for me earlier, I am suddenly feeling rather abandoned,’ Bilbo joked, though it was plain enough that he did not mean it. Merry remembered that about Bilbo more than anything else except his stories. He had always liked to poke fun at other people’s foibles and inconsistencies.

‘Well, that we can’t have,’ Prince Kíli announced. ‘Fíli and I will be with you to the end, we swear it!’

It was an overblown sentiment in the tone he used, but also a serious one, Merry thought. They would not leave Bilbo, the two dwarven princes. Not willingly.

‘No doubt,’ Bilbo replied. ‘I have never managed to rid myself of either of you yet, no matter how hard I tried.’

‘Now, Bilbo, don’t be like that,’ Prince Fíli scolded lightly. ‘You’ll hurt our feelings.’

Bilbo snorted but did not otherwise respond. Instead he looked at Elladan and Strider.

‘Take those two young scamps with you, if you please,’ he commanded, no hint of a request in his tone as he gestured to Merry and Pippin. ‘I will keep mine where I can watch him, I think. I find he is rather untrustworthy of late.’

Frodo flinched and Prince Kíli gave Bilbo a warning look which Bilbo acknowledged with a nod. Merry’s brief indignation at being handed off so summarily died. He would probably be a great deal more comfortable with Strider and Elladan anyway. Pippin apparently agreed, for he said not a word.

‘Sméagol is with us, then,’ Elladan concluded as he nodded his acceptance to Bilbo’s request. Sméagol said nothing, only watched. ‘Which, mellon, leaves only you unclaimed,’ he informed Prince Legolas.

‘I will go with Bilbo,’ Prince Legolas said firmly. ‘I have a promise to keep.’

‘Promise?’ Bilbo asked suspiciously, but Prince Legolas did not answer the implied question.

‘Is that it, then?’ Pippin asked. ‘Do we split up now?’

‘Not right now, young one,’ Elladan teased him. ‘I was planning on sleeping first. I find it helps.’

‘You knew what I meant,’ Pippin complained and Elladan chuckled.

‘Yes, I did. We will travel together a day or two more, I think. Bilbo and the others will need to cross the Anduin at some point and doing so above Rauros Falls would likely be unwise. We can escort them so far before we turn towards Anorien and then through to Minas Tirith. Sigrid, Alnir and Bofur will probably leave a little before us. Edoras is directly south from here.’

Merry called to mind the maps he had studied in Rivendell and nodded to himself. A day or two more at most, he thought, before they would need to turn east. He was glad not to be heading to Mordor and felt a coward because of it. The feeling would not dissipate though. Mordor was nothing but an imagining to him, but it was a dark, ominous one. Black clouds and ground, with Mount Doom an even darker shadow within the mountains that the maps said ringed the land. He would have gone there, had it been the best way for him to help, but if he was to be given another task then he could not be sorry for it.

***

A Fellowship for only days and already they were parting. Legolas wished it could have been otherwise, but knew it for a futile wish. Saruman had made his choice and now they must change their course to stop him. Evil had no consideration for other people’s plans.

This was the second night since they had decided they would part and Legolas knew it would be their last together. He and his fellows must turn east if they were to make for Mordor and Alnir and the others must continue south. His heart ached at the need to let them go their own way. Alnir and Sigrid had been fine pupils and were strong and capable fighters in their own right, but the need to guide and protect them had never really faded. They had been children when they came to brighten his life, Alnir especially, and always Legolas could still see the child imposed upon the man he had become. It was one of the challenges of friendship with mortals, finding a way to leave the children they had been behind.

Fíli and Kíli felt it too, he thought, in a way that even Bilbo did not. They, like Legolas, had sat near to the young ones before it was time to sleep, drawing solace from their presence. Legolas wondered if Fíli and Kíli felt the same dread as he at the thought that all the training they had given might not be enough. That something they had not done, some lesson left untaught, might be the fatal flaw.

Dark and depressing thoughts and ones Legolas was desperately trying to shake off. It was naught but arrogance to assume that Sigrid or Alnir was more likely to die than he. Immortality was no guarantee of survival in war, nor was greater experience. It needed only one mistake from him, just as it would from them. Either way brooding upon it in the dark would change nothing.

Caught up in his musings, Legolas had not fully registered movement in the camp. They all moved during the night anyway. Well, almost all. Elladan slept like a corpse, never moving an inch though he could be awake in a heartbeat if aught went wrong. It was the elven way, to be so still and to gaze unseeing even in their sleep. Fíli and Kíli were the opposite. Restless sleepers, both of them, and if they did not start the night next to one another they always seemed to end that way. Alnir seemed to have made an unspoken game of trying to separate the two of them to see if they could still wake next to one another. So far they had managed every time, though no one knew how.

Luckily, it was Kíli and not Legolas who was on watch. Before Legolas had even had time to comprehend the spurt of movement nearby, Kíli was there. Legolas opened his eyes to see one heavy dwarven boot slamming forward to dislodge something from atop one of the others and Kíli’s ridged blade held at the assailant’s throat.

‘Ours,’ Legolas heard even as he bolted upright. ‘It’s ours!’ The exclamation was followed by a horrendous gurgling noise that sounded as if the figure was trying to clear its throat during a particularly bad cold. It was almost drowned out by the sound of the rest of the Fellowship waking, many of them drawing weapons before their eyes were fully open.

‘Kí, what?’ Fíli was saying, rolling towards his brother without opening his eyes at all and already with a dagger in one hand. When his eyes did open they immediately settled not on Kíli but on Bilbo, who was gasping for breath.

‘Bilbo,’ Fíli exclaimed instantly, hurrying forward and drawing Bilbo upright so that he was sitting. ‘Mahal’s blood, what happened?’

‘I do not… think… he bleeds,’ Bilbo forced out. Fíli looked unimpressed by the attempt at a joke and turned to his brother instead. By this time the whole Fellowship was gathered round and almost all eyes were on Kíli.

‘I think we’d better ask that question to _him_ ,’ Kíli snarled viciously, poking the figure on the floor with his boot again.

‘It’s _ours_!’ was the figure’s hissing response. It pushed itself up of the floor, only to sink back down when Kíli’s sword began to bite into its neck.

‘Sméagol,’ Legolas heard one of the younger hobbits moan in horror. He spared a moment of pity for them. It was not a betrayal he would wish upon anyone.

‘Do we kill him?’ Frodo asked, looking at Sméagol with disgust clear on his face. Bilbo sat all the way up and stared at his nephew.

‘No, Frodo, we do _not_ kill him,’ Bilbo denied fiercely, if hoarsely. ‘Madness is not a crime.’

‘Murder is!’ Frodo insisted angrily, still glaring at Sméagol. ‘No matter how mad someone is.’

‘I will leave you to tell that to Gimli when we return to Erebor,’ Bilbo informed him. ‘Famla, as well.’

Frodo’s mouth snapped shut and one or two of the others shifted uneasily. Legolas looked at the furious faces around him and decided it was time to step in. Anger, even justified anger, rarely led to well-considered decisions.

‘Kíli, what happened?’ he asked firmly, making it clear he expected a full answer. Kíli did not take his eyes from Sméagol even as he answered.

‘He’d been muttering all evening,’ Kíli told them. ‘I heard him start not long after most of you went to bed. Nothing I could hear, but it was enough to catch my attention. It went on for a couple of hours, on and off, and I don’t really know when he stopped for good. I was checking Fíli’s blades over and I assumed he’d start up again. Until he was suddenly halfway across the camp before I could even get to my feet, anyway. He’d got the chain pulled against Bilbo’s throat, trying to choke him. Luckily I got there in time to get him off.’

At this point Bilbo interrupted again.

‘Though it may make no difference in the end,’ he said with a resigned air, ‘he wasn’t actually trying to choke me. He was trying to get the chain off. I presume he thought it had a clasp he could break, not being familiar with dwarven craftsmanship.’

‘It’s _ours_!’ Sméagol whined again.

‘You shut up,’ Kíli snapped out, jabbing Sméagol with the toe of his boot again.

‘Kíli,’ Sigrid objected.

‘He tried to kill Bilbo,’ Kíli all-but-shouted. ‘ _Again!_ ’

‘Quiet,’ Elladan commanded. ‘The last thing we need is anything out there coming to see what in the Valar’s name is going on. Bilbo, if we are not to kill him then what are we to do with him? You must see what a danger he has just become.’

Sméagol whimpered and something in the tone of it drew Legolas’ attention. When he looked closely he could see that Sméagol’s eyes had changed. The madness was gone for the moment and instead fear had taken its place.

‘Hobbits,’ Sméagol murmured, looking straight at Merry and Pippin. ‘Hobbits make them let us go. We did not means it.’

The Fellowship all now looked at the two young hobbits. Legolas thought they must make an amusing picture, had anyone been about to see it, their heads turning one way and then another as if pulled by ropes.

They all got a bit of a shock at the answer Sméagol received.

‘No,’ Pippin said in a choked voice. ‘No, don’t let him go,’ he continued more firmly. ‘That was his last chance.’

‘Pip?’ Merry asked in a startled tone.

‘Don’t kill him,’ Pippin continued, looking worriedly at Kíli. ‘Please. He really is sick. But don’t let him go either.’

Sméagol wailed in anguish and curled in on himself, ignoring the fact that he’d cut himself on Kíli’s sword as he did so. Legolas started forward and pressed his hand to wound, calling forth what little healing magic he could claim. Punishment was one thing. Infection and the possibility of a long, pain-wracked death was another. Kíli stepped back, apparently trusting Legolas to be able to restrain Sméagol if necessary, but did not sheathe his sword. When Legolas stepped away, Kíli retook his place.

‘So what would you have us do with him, Pippin?’ Elladan questioned, tone full of forced calm. ‘This was, as you say, surely his last chance. He is a danger to Bilbo and so to us all.’

‘We part ways today,’ Pippin said softly after a moment. ‘Bilbo and the others will go one way and we will go another. Tie Sméagol up, so he can’t go after them. We’ll keep him with us, where he can’t do any real damage.’

‘Until he tries to strangle you so he can go after Uncle Bilbo,’ Frodo commented. Legolas was relieved to see concern in his eyes rather than anger. At least he was not planning to take this out on the other hobbits.

‘That’s why we’re going to tie him up,’ Pippin explained. He moved away, then returned with a length of plain rope in his hands. ‘Merry makes me bring it every time we go anywhere,’ he explained. Legolas realised, startled, that Pippin was talking directly to him. ‘You can use it to tie him, can’t you?’

‘I can, henig,’ Legolas responded. ‘It will have to be a harsh knot to keep him entirely restrained, though. Your friend does not strike me as one easily contained.’

‘No,’ the response came, from Merry not from Pippin this time, ‘he’s not. Make it tight. The most important thing is that he can’t escape.’

Sméagol wailed again, but this time it trailed off into a hiss. He bared the few teeth he had and snapped them at the two young hobbits. Had Legolas not seem him when he had arrived two days earlier, looking very much the hobbit instead of this wild creature, he would not have believed that Sméagol could be so.

‘Nasty hobbits,’ Sméagol snarled. ‘Tricks us, pretends they are our friends and then hurts us.’

‘We are your friends,’ Pippin told him sadly as Legolas bound Sméagol’s hands tightly enough that the bonds would not be easily severed. ‘That’s why we’re doing this. That thing is evil, Sméagol. You know that. The real you does. Not this… person the ring has made you.’

‘Proves it,’ Sméagol demanded. ‘Lets us go.’

‘No,’ Pippin answered. ‘No, not like that.’ He looked at the length of rope he still had in his hands and then back at Sméagol. Then he held the rope out to Legolas.

‘Me as well,’ he told Legolas firmly. ‘Just like his.’

‘Pippin, are you sure that’s wise?’ Strider asked. ‘This journey is dangerous and you will be at a disadvantage.’

‘Well, obviously if something tries to attack us I’m expecting one of you to set me free,’ Pippin said. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

Legolas took Pippin’s hands and reluctantly bound them together. It was a brave decision made with good intentions, but he hoped that the young one did not end up regretting it. Sméagol had quieted and said nothing now, staring at Pippin’s bound hands blankly. When no one had spoken for long minutes Elladan decided they were done.

‘We are all awake anyway,’ he said regretfully, ‘and I doubt any of us will be sleeping any time soon. I think it is time we went our separate ways.’

Legolas looked around him, seeing the nods of agreement and moves to collect their belongings.

Please Valar, he thought to any who were listening, let us all be together again someday.

******

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now need to go away and do some forward planning for the rest of the story. There's a plan, I promise, it just needs fine-tuning. Anyway, hopefully it won't interfere too much with the writing but if the next chapter takes a little longer at least you'll know why!


	17. Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has an opinion. Thorin's beginning to wish that they were a little less free with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with Thorin for this one. I hope you all enjoy! Any comments are welcome, as always.

Chapter Sixteen: Responsibility

When, Thorin wondered, had he become so unused to making decisions on his own? Lifetimes ago, or so it felt now, he had always made decisions alone. Yes, there had been Balin for advice and he had never _dared_ to ignore Dís’ opinion on any subject. Frequently Dwalin (even in his mind he spat the name out) had offered his own brand of wisdom. In the end, however, the decision had been Thorin’s and his alone. His was the duty; his the responsibility of rule, even if he were only the crownless king of a scattered people. It had been the only way he knew.

Most likely things had changed when he had received a swift kick up the backside from his interfering creator. Treating your companions on a quest as friends changed a great many things. Especially when they were none of them exactly shy. Except perhaps Ori, but that had not survived his friendship with the lads for very long.

He had no one here now. Not Balin, still miles away in Erebor. Not Dís, helping to rule in his stead. Dwalin… well, Dwalin had proven himself no friend of Thorin’s. If he could not trust Thorin’s judgement, would sneak behind Thorin’s back because he knew his idea would be gainsaid otherwise, what trust could Thorin place in him? His other three pillars, the supports that had kept him strong through the years, were hundreds of miles away now. Far beyond his reach.

‘It is like watching a couple two thousand years into a marriage have a disagreement. If there were any more seething going on I would fear to step between you lest the glares strike me dead instantly.’

There was this one, though, Thorin thought with reluctant amusement. This one he had forgotten about, if not for long.

‘Was the elven camp too boring for you after confronting Sauron’s favourite errand boys, bâhuh?’ Thorin questioned him wryly. ‘You came to cause havoc over here instead?’

‘Not at all,’ Thranduil said gaily as he sat cross-legged beside Thorin with far more grace than anyone that old should possess. Thorin wondered how real the gaiety was. Thranduil had lost one of his own when he fought the Nazgûl and losses had always hit him as hard as they did Thorin. ‘I decided I would come and help you extract a little revenge. Your Captain of the Guard likes me no more now than he did twenty years ago. He is already turning almost puce with anger at my presence.’

‘By which you mean, “yes, Thorin, you are right. I was bored and I decided to entertain myself by setting your own party on end”,’ Thorin concluded.

‘Really, mellon, you are far too cynical,’ Thranduil scolded him.

‘I would say I am just cynical enough, personally,’ Thorin retorted. ‘Especially given your performance with Glorfindel and Celeborn at the Council.’

Thranduil snickered. Of all the many noises Thorin had heard him make, that had not yet been one. He stored it carefully away in his memory in case he needed ammunition later.

‘That was entirely Glorfindel’s fault,’ he told Thorin with mock gravity. ‘I was simply helping a friend.’

When Thorin stared at him with an entirely unconvinced expression for several moments, Thranduil broke slightly.

‘You must admit, it was fun to watch,’ he said, snickering again at the memory.

‘You are an overgrown child,’ Thorin announced. He had not expected the announcement to have much impact on Thranduil and so was not disappointed when it was ignored. When Thranduil’s expression abruptly sobered Thorin began to be concerned.

‘Thorin, you cannot ignore him entirely,’ Thranduil said firmly. ‘He is your Captain, if nothing else. Elrond’s scouts say we will have our battle come morning and there must be some decisions the two of you need to make. Unless you knew all of this was going to happen…’ Thranduil trailed off at the end, voice lilted up in a question, though it was one to which he knew the answer. No, Thorin and Dwalin had not discussed their strategy for the morning. There had been too many unknowns before they left Lothlórien to make it practical. Thorin had relayed a message to Dwalin through Ori, but Thranduil was not to know it.

‘If I cannot trust him with Frodo, how can I trust him in battle?’ Thorin asked rhetorically, only to be soundly rebuked.

‘Now that is just childish and you know it,’ Thranduil said as if he were talking to Legolas during one of his more outlandish moments. ‘You have trusted Dwalin in battle for over a hundred years of exile and war, trusted him implicitly and never has he let you down. To assume he will do so now because you have disagreed over Frodo is ridiculous. He misled you but he has not become an orc while your back was turned.’

‘You would counsel that I ignore the fact he has sent Frodo into the world unprepared on the chance he might be able to help Bilbo with the ring?’ Thorin asked incredulously.

‘I would counsel that you think a little more carefully about your own actions before you condemn a good friend for doing what he thought was best,’ Thranduil retorted, voice dagger-sharp. ‘Do not tell me you have never made a decision you found hard to live with because you thought it might help in the end, Thorin Oakenshield, for I will not believe it.’

‘Yet you are the one who came over here solely for the purpose of angering him,’ Thorin pointed out irately.

‘I said that you needed to speak with him about the battle and also consider his reasons, Thorin. I did not say I thought him entirely blameless. He will be irritated by my presence, but not hurt. To lose a long friendship through good intentions would be a heavy price to pay.’

‘He lied to me, if not in words then in deed,’ Thorin argued. ‘He knew I would not allow Frodo to go.’

‘Yes, he did,’ Thranduil agreed evenly. ‘Think, Thorin, how important he must have thought Frodo’s presence to be if he would go behind you to see it done. Dwalin is not Nori, to use guile first and arguments second.’

‘Is this what you came over for?’ Thorin asked irritably. ‘To give me a telling off as if I were a child?’

‘No,’ Thranduil snapped. ‘I came for the company of one who would understand the fear of sending his child hundreds of miles away to face malevolent evil with no way of protecting him. If you are determined to argue with me, however, then I will be on my way.’

Thranduil began to rise, spine stiff, and Thorin cursed mentally. He still did not agree with Thranduil but Mahal knew he had not meant to argue with _him_ as well.

‘Stop, Thranduil,’ he said wearily, glad that his friend did at least pause. ‘Let us simply agree to disagree on this. I have discussed everything with Ori and he has seen it organised with Dwalin. Let us just have peace, this night at least.’

Thranduil was clearly biting his tongue to hold something back. Thorin decided it was better he did not know what. He could use friendship this night and he did not like to turn Thranduil away when he was clearly so concerned about Legolas. Thorin sighed with relief when Thranduil sat once more, still stiff but at least still there.

‘So,’ Thorin said in a desperate bid to lighten the tone, ‘how much of that little display at the Council had you and Glorfindel practiced beforehand?’

For a moment Thranduil seemed to consider the hand figuratively extended to him warily. Then he relaxed his posture and took the bait.

‘Practice was unnecessary,’ Thranduil told Thorin haughtily. ‘Some of us are simply naturally talented in that manner.

***

‘He’s gone!’ was the first thing Thorin heard when he awoke the next morning. It was a horrified cry that had him bolting to his feet, reaching for Orcrist instinctively. He started with surprise when his hand found the sword at least two feet above the ground. Turning, he saw Dwalin standing there holding Orcrist towards him. The look in his eyes Thorin could not interpret, even with all the years of their friendship to help him. He wasted only a brief second on trying. There was no time to worry about Dwalin. He took the sword and moved away.

Heading in the direction of the noise Thorin scanned his own camp quickly to make sure all was in order. Everywhere he looked his party were organising themselves for battle, faces grim but resolved. This was no army, they had not left home expecting a war, but they would be ready nonetheless. There were few in any of the groups who had not fought before.

‘Thorin,’ Elrond’s voice called as he strode forward, looking as ill-composed as he had when he Galadriel had told him the hobbits were missing.

‘What is it?’ Thorin asked him as they drew closer together. ‘Who’s gone?’

‘Sméagol,’ Elrond replied, sounding tired. ‘He must have departed during the night. Elrohir cannot find him.’

‘Oh Mahal,’ Thorin muttered, feeling as tired as Elrond sounded despite a full night of rest. ‘Not him as well.’

‘I confess that was my reaction as well,’ Elrond informed him. ‘Were it not so worrying it would almost be amusing; we have a Fellowship off to try and save Middle Earth and, now, a trail of ducklings hurrying along after them.’

‘I am sorry,’ Elrohir said fervently as he approached. ‘Father, I swear I thought he was safe enough asleep…’

‘There is little point in assigning blame,’ Elrond said quietly, squeezing Elrohir’s shoulder. ‘I could have insisted you kept him tied to you after we told him the young ones had run off but I did not. Either way he is gone now.’

‘You think it was about the hobbbits?’ Thorin questioned. ‘If he has gone after the ring Bilbo is in danger.’

‘Sméagol seemed happy enough with the elves until he learned that the wee ones had made a run for it,’ Dwalin said gruffly from nearby. ‘I’d say he’s after them. For now, at least.’

‘If you are trying to be comforting you might try harder,’ Elrohir grumbled at Dwalin.

‘I am trying to be practical,’ Dwalin retorted, ‘unpopular though it makes me. Bilbo has his Fellowship to protect him, if he needs it. There’s not much we can do now even if Sméagol is after the ring.’

‘And yet you felt the need to add three extra members to Bilbo’s Fellowship,’ Thorin sneered, ‘including the two that creature has gone after! If they have to protect Bilbo from anything it will be...’ the sentence ended in a series of muffled growling noises as a delicate, long-fingered hand appeared over the top of Thorin’s mouth.

‘All of which can be discussed at length later,’ Thranduil decreed regally. ‘Let us keep this discussion focused on matters that we can affect, shall we?’

For a moment all of Thorin’s dignity and maturity abandoned him. Angry, hurt, embarrassed at Thranduil’s interference and quite simply fed up of this whole mess, Thorin took his frustration out in a manner that would have made his nephews proud.

He bit Thranduil’s hand. Hard.

Thranduil, of course, had not the goodness to appear at all irritated or hurt by this manoeuvre. Curling his fingers just enough to bring what nails he had against Thorin’s cheek he pressed down gently, letting the gesture carry the implied threat. Two can play at that game… Regaining the common sense that had momentarily fled, Thorin deliberately drew his teeth away from Thranduil’s skin. A moment later the Elven King removed his hand, examining it dispassionately.

Elrond caught sight of the gesture and gave a sigh of disgust.

‘Eru above, am I the only adult here?’ he murmured, catching Thranduil’s hand in his and concentrating hard for a few moments. When he was done the bruise that had been forming had disappeared. ‘We are about to fight a battle, in case that had escaped your attention, Thorin.’

Now Thorin remembered why he normally suppressed these impulses. They almost always led to further humiliation. Luckily Thranduil decided to be magnanimous and pretend that nothing had happened.

‘Father, do I go after him?’ Elrohir asked suddenly, returning to their original subject. Elrond shook his head sharply.

‘No, I think we have quite enough people haring around Middle Earth as it is,’ he answered decisively. ‘Sméagol’s fate is of his own making now. We can do no more.’

‘The army is not far away,’ Glorfindel announced as he approached swiftly. ‘They fell behind because one of them had the common sense to realise they were a greater threat if they weren’t spread out across several miles, more is the pity, but they gained on us while we slept.’

‘Well, if you went scouting then they no doubt know that we are waiting for them,’ Elrohir stated dryly. ‘You are not exactly inconspicuous.’

‘No,’ Bain announced as he and Ori also joined their unplanned war council, ‘but we are, which is why we were the ones who went to look. We have an hour, if that, my lords. I suggest we ready ourselves.’

‘An excellent suggestion,’ Thranduil said generously. ‘Let us do that. Come along, mellon.’

With that he caught hold of Thorin’s arm and impelled him forward with the elven strength that still took Thorin by surprise after all these years.

‘You will regret that bite when all of this is over, Thorin Oakenshield,’ Thranduil warned threateningly as they left the earshot of the rest of the group. ‘Bear that in mind.’

***

‘We are ready?’ Thorin asked Ori impatiently some time later. The sun was fully up now, which pleased him. The orcs seemed determined to catch up with them today and he would much rather fight this battle when the orcs were at a disadvantage.

‘We are,’ Ori said softly, trying not to be heard. ‘Not that I am the best person to ask, _Your Majesty_ …’

‘Do not start that, Ori,’ Thorin warned. ‘Just because Fíli gets away with using my title when he is annoyed does not mean that you will as well.’

‘I am doing it on his behalf,’ Ori replied seriously. ‘You know they would not approve.’

‘I do not approve of a great many things that they do, but that has never stopped them yet,’ Thorin stated firmly, if untruthfully. ‘Our forces, Ori?’

‘Are as ready as they can be,’ Ori assured him. ‘You need only say the word.’

‘Good,’ Thorin said, then roared, ‘Form up!’

Almost instantly his guard took their place in the centre of the field which had, until a short while before, been their campsite. The Misty Mountains loomed in the distance to the west, blocking any escape from that direction. A short way to the south was the River Gladden, which they hoped would slow the approach of their enemies by forcing them to wade their way across before fighting. To the east was the Anduin, deeper here according to Thranduil and forming a good barrier against any orcs still on the other side of the river. Not that there were likely to be many. There had been a good crossing point further down and Bain reported that most of the orcs seemed to have taken advantage of it.

With Thorin’s small force in the centre, Bain’s men quickly formed up behind them. Bard’s weapon of choice had become increasingly popular with his people as the years turned and the vast majority of Bain’s forces were archers. Thorin took a quick look at the few that did not wield bows and signalled rapidly to Bain.

‘Problem?’ the future Lord of Dale asked swiftly when he was within earshot.

‘No, merely a suggestion,’ Thorin reassured him. ‘I have two archers among my folk and you have some swordsmen…’

‘Swap you?’ Bain said with a mischievous smile that made him look far younger than he truly was.

‘If I have your word that you will return them, yes,’ Thorin agreed sternly. Bain laughed quietly, keeping his face away from their people so that he would not be seen.

‘It was not _my_ people who were so fond of the idea of kidnap when you returned to Erebor, Thorin,’ he pointed out.

‘I take no responsibility for Bofur,’ Thorin replied immediately. ‘Whatever addled his brain happened long ago and was far beyond my control.’ Bain laughed again and then turned, hurried back to his position and whistled loudly to Sigrid’s second-in-command. Almost instantly a small number of men peeled away and moved to join the dwarves. Before Thorin could issue a command Dwalin had uttered orders of his own and their two archers moved to join the men.

While all of this had been going on, the Elves had taken care of their own arrangements with customary swiftness. Elrond’s warriors were arrayed on either side of Thorin’s own, Thranduil’s at the very back. All stood still as the moment just before dawn, betraying not a hint of concern.

‘We are as ready as we can be,’ Glorfindel pronounced as he moved to the front. ‘Save the appearance of another hundred or so fighters, which even I would not turn down at this point.’

‘Somehow I do not think we are going to be that lucky,’ Thorin commented. ‘Is that movement?’

Thorin was peering into the distance at faint shadows. Unfortunately his eyesight was far better equipped for darkness than for the morning light.

‘It is,’ Glorfindel confirmed. ‘Our guests have arrived.’

As often seemed to happen when battle was nigh, Thorin felt calm descend upon him. This was what he had trained for all of his life and it had a simplicity to it that pleased him. An enemy in front, allies to his back and Orcrist in his hand. Time to put a crimp in Sauron’s plans.

***

Why he’d been cursed with a prideful, pig-headed, pain in the arse as his dearest friend Dwalin didn’t know. You’d have thought that after a hundred years of trying to save the Line of Durin from themselves and everything else that wanted to kill them he would’ve deserved a break, but apparently Mahal did not believe in rewarding long-suffering guard captains. All Dwalin ever got were more crises and situations in which Thorin could try to kill himself. Only this time he’d deliberately put himself ten dwarves along from Dwalin, which was going to make this even more difficult.

‘One day his pride is going to get him killed,’ Dwalin griped, mostly to himself, ‘and all I’m going to do is say “I told you so”.’

‘No,’ a quiet voice refuted, ‘you won’t. You’ll be too busy trying to get to him to save him.’

‘I’d be thinking it very loudly,’ Dwalin insisted to Ori.

‘Now that I believe,’ the younger dwarf replied, unconsciously rolling his shoulders as if trying to loosen them. Now that Dwalin looked more closely he could see signs of nerves on their scribe’s face.

‘You’ll be fine, lad,’ Dwalin tried to reassure him. ‘You’ve not gone soft, no matter how long it’s been. I’d have said so.’

‘I know,’ Ori said softly. ‘It isn’t natural to me, though.’

‘No shame in that,’ Dwalin answered sincerely. ‘If you asked me to sit making notes on one of those council meetings I’d go mad. We all play to our strengths. You talk circles around people who threaten what we’ve built and I make sure they’re too scared to try anything. If that doesn’t work, I decapitate them and you crack their skulls. It all works out.’

‘One day I’m going to write all of these pearls of wisdom down,’ Ori threatened after he’d finished choking and Dwalin had smacked him on the back a few times, ‘so that later generations can enjoy them as well.’

Dwalin snorted and nodded directly ahead.

‘Best wait until we’ve dealt with this lot,’ he stated as he readied Grasper and Keeper. ‘Here they come.’

As usual, the orcs had begun shouting and posturing as they got closer, trying to get a reaction. Thorin wasn’t going to give them one, however, and apparently the yellow-haired legend wasn’t either. The elf stood quietly, listening to jeering and insults as the orcs drew up and formed ragged lines opposite their own forces. He waited until there was almost silence and then raised one eyebrow.

‘Are you done now?’ he called loudly across the distance between them. None of the orcs seemed to know how to reply, stupid clods. They just looked at him. Glorfindel sighed.

‘Very well, then,’ he murmured, before shouting something convoluted in that wishy-washy language the elves spoke. A rain of arrows flew over Dwalin’s head, most hitting their targets and spurring the orcs into movement. With that, the battle was met.

There was something soothing about fighting orcs, in Dwalin’s opinion. There was a rhythm to it; a pattern that he’d studied for so long it was a part of him. Block here, strike there, see that opening and take advantage and there, it was done. Not that it was completely without surprises. Like the mace that had just collided with his hip, Mahal bugger it. Damnit that stung. Dwalin snarled angrily and beheaded the guttersnipe that had taken him unawares.

The surprises weren’t the hardest part, though. The hardest part was, and ever would be, trying to keep watch over all of his fighters at the same time. Somewhere in his head Dwalin knew that he could not protect everyone constantly, but it made it no easier to lose a warrior to these filth. Even worse was giving the news of a death to a family even as he knew that, had he not been protecting Thorin, he could’ve saved the life they’d lost.

None of which meant that he in any way approved of Thorin deliberately putting himself halfway down the line where it was virtually impossible for Dwalin to guard him properly. There was anger and then there was just stupidity and Thorin had thrown himself fully over the line between the two. So now Dwalin had to kill as many orcs as possible all while trying to get back to his stone-dense King, without losing anyone else.

Sometimes Dwalin was convinced that Mahal was using him as entertainment when he had nothing better to do.

This internal grumbling took him all of two minutes, by which time he had hewn an arm from one startled looking orc and had gut-wounded another. Now Dwalin grabbed hold of Ori’s sleeve with the two fingers he had spare and yanked downward just as an orc tried to separate his friend’s head from his neck. Ori, proving that training held good no matter how seldom it was used, retaliated by caving in the orc’s ribcage with his war-hammer and then kicking it firmly in the head when it crumpled.

The younger dwarf gave Dwalin a swift, almost innocent, smile before he returned to the carnage of the battle. Dwalin felt his own lips twitch. That was their Ori; cheerful as a morning lark and as fierce as a berserker.

Dwalin’s current problem could claim the ferocity but not the cheeriness and he was using that ferocity to wreak havoc among their enemies. Orcrist flashed silver in the growing light as Thorin laid waste to the orcs around him. A small part of Dwalin - the part that had agreed to follow his King to kill a dragon and had thoroughly enjoyed charging at said dragon as if it was an old, lame cow - wished that he had infuriated Thorin years ago if it was going to make him this deadly on the battlefield. The part of him which had survived the last hundred years pointed out how much he was going to regret all of this later.

Seeing Dwalin fighting his way towards him only seemed to anger Thorin further. He deliberately turned his back to Dwalin and now Dwalin was the angry one. The stupid oaf could have all the temper tantrums he liked when there wasn’t an orc trying to literally stab him in the back. Just as Dwalin gave a roar of frustration, a slim dagger flew out of nowhere and struck the orc straight through the eye. Dwalin nearly roared again when he realised it had come from Thranduil. Damned prissy, tree-lover. Didn’t he have anything better to do than smirk condescendingly at Dwalin in the middle of a battle?

Two more orcs took the brunt of Dwalin’s frustration, one of them comically hopping on one leg for a moment before the pain of his severed limb hit and he tumbled to the floor, being crushed under the boots of his comrades. Orcs did not bother to watch where they trod. Dwalin, on the other hand, spotted an orc about to finish off a fallen man and cut it down with a double swipe of his axes, nearly carving the thing in two. With a sharp shout in Khuzdul he caught the attention of one of his own soldiers and indicated the man on the ground. The dwarf moved immediately to stand guard over the wounded lad. Dwalin had no time for grief in battle, but he’d not lose another fighter if there was still life there. The lad made it clear that there was by scrambling for a dagger and hauling himself closer to his protector, looking around for any orcs he’d be able to reach from the ground.

Now, finally, Dwalin made it to where Thorin stood. His King had a slice across the back of his neck that Dwalin had not seen him take and Dwalin moved quickly to put them back to back so he could make sure it didn’t happen again. None too soon, in his opinion, as one of the unnaturally large orcs made its way towards them.

‘Left, Thorin!’ Dwalin shouted, hoping that Thorin would regain at least some of his common sense and stop cutting off his nose to spite his face. For once his prayers were answered.

‘I see him,’ Thorin yelled back. It would have been hard to do otherwise. This orc appeared to have strength to rival even Azog, which Dwalin wouldn’t have thought possible. He cleaved through a man’s chest with the battered, rusted sword he was using and Dwalin winced in sympathy. Poor bastard. He’d never stood a chance.

‘That sword was not forged by a smith,’ Thorin called to Dwalin contemptuously. ‘I could have done better as a babe in arms.’

‘Then let’s see how well it holds,’ Dwalin suggested, looking over his shoulder, and for one brief moment they were in harmony once again. Thorin’s eyes took on a wicked gleam and they began forcing their way forward, both howling war cries together.

‘Baruk khazad!’ Dwalin heard himself shout, drawing the thing’s attention and distracting it from the elf it had been attacking.

The elf used the opportunity to deal with another opponent, who looked to have broken her bow in half with the mace it swung. With barely a pause she took an arrow from her quiver and calmly stabbed the second orc through the throat. She cried out in elvish to one of her comrades to catch his attention. When he looked over she held her broken bow up and the male elf quickly drew his sword and sent his own bow hurtling through the air and directly into her hands. Dwalin wondered absently how long the two of them had fought together, that he would so readily give his weapon up to her.

The big orc, as dark as Azog had been pale, had now forgotten the female elf entirely. He shoved his way through the crowd, shouting the only word of Black Speech that Dwalin could ever remember.

‘Oakenshield!’

‘Well,’ Thorin commented in a deceptively cool tone, ‘I do believe he has heard of me.’

Dwalin rolled his eyes but didn’t bother speaking. The elves were a terrible influence on Thorin, no matter how useful they might be as allies.

He had little time to reflect on elven flaws, however. Thorin had started moving again and Dwalin followed immediately, never letting his King get more than a foot away from him. When King and orc finally came together, Dwalin quickly assessed the orc’s fighting style and realised that his strength was his only true weapon. He had little skill and that blade, if Thorin was right, would snap easily enough. Dwalin was willing to bet on Thorin being right about the blade.

‘Thorin, switch,’ he cried, expecting an instantaneous reaction. They had always done this in battle, eyed up a foe and decided which of them stood the best chance against it. Dwalin was taller and stronger than Thorin and Grasper and Keeper well suited to the battering that would be needed to break the orc’s sword. It had not occurred to him that Thorin might hesitate.

But hesitate he did and it nearly proved fatal.

Eyes lit up with malice as he eyed his victim, the orc lashed out while Thorin hovered with Orcrist somewhere out to his side. It was a foolish error, leaving Thorin open and with hardly any time to block the blow. As it whistled towards him, Dwalin ducked around to the front, bringing Keeper up and blocking the blow himself.

Instinct had him striking with Grasper seconds later, bringing the axe to bear on the orc’s sword with all of his might. He nearly overbalanced when the sword, as Thorin had predicted, shattered pathetically at the force of the hit.

Thankfully Thorin chose that moment to get his head out of his arse and actually do what they had been trained to do. Within moments the big orc, still stunned by the failure of his weapon, was dead on the floor, his blood dripping from Orcrist’s blade. Thorin caught Dwalin’s eyes and, though he said nothing, Dwalin knew that after the battle there would be some sort of conversation between them. Little though he liked meaningful conversations, Dwalin decided he would be grateful to have this one.

Distracted as he had been by his own part in the battle, Dwalin had kept only a peripheral awareness of the battlefield as a whole. He had seen a number of orcs fall to the ground with arrows protruding from various body parts but had had no idea how many had been killed. Three dead orcs later, he finally had time to take a breath and to note that the orcs were down to less than a third of their number, no longer outstripping the dwarves and their allies. Bain’s men had retreated behind a line of elven and dwarven infantry once more and were picking off orcs with quiet determination. A number of elves stood with them, including the female elf Dwalin had noticed earlier, but the vast majority of the elves had drawn their swords or daggers and closed with the orcs.

Dwalin took another quick glance around the battlefield and caught sight of a lone dwarf stood away from the rest of their kin, legs braced and sword held at the ready. An orc approached him and the dwarf growled an insult, taunting the orc and inciting him to rush forward. As the orc did so it suddenly squealed and stumbled to a stop and the dwarf slit its throat with careful precision. Then he looked down at the floor and spoke, laughing a second later. Dwalin allowed himself another brief twitch of the lips. They’d lose people today, good people, no doubt about that; but that was one life he had won back. One man who would live this day because Dwalin had kept his eyes open.

That was what being the Captain of Erebor’s Guard was really about.

******

 


	18. Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even friends who know each other well cannot know all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to spend all my time apologising for delayed chapters on Remember. Just as an explanation, I have a headache problem that can sometimes go on for a couple of weeks at a time and means I don't have much energy for writing. I'm not just wandering off and leaving you hanging for the fun of it! Thank you for having patience and I hope the delays haven't put you off :)

Chapter Seventeen: Confusion

Alnir had never cared for partings. He remembered too well the slam of the door that had often followed his mother’s tantrums and the uncertainty over whether or not she would return. It had been hard as a child to understand why she wished to leave them all the time. He had wondered what was wrong with them, why they weren’t good enough.

Looking back, of course, it was obvious enough what the problem was. Mother wouldn’t have been content anywhere – she could have been Lady of Dale and still would have wanted to know why she was not Queen of Erebor as well. As if Thorin would have touched her with a barge-pole. They had all been much happier when she had finally decided to leave for ‘somewhere civilised’ along with Grandfather, once she realised that Father wasn’t going to humour her any longer.

Unfortunately none of that made saying goodbye any easier. He still missed her sometimes; she had been his mother, after all, despite all her flaws. To part from friends he loved so well was even harder. Only the fact that he was not leaving Sigrid behind provided some comfort. At least he would have someone familiar to lean on when things got tough. Or to annoy when he got bored. There were only so many travelling games a man could make up.

He had Bofur as well, of course. The dwarf was a good friend and Alnir loved him almost as much as he loved Sigrid. He just wished that Bofur would pull his head out of his arse and stop breaking his sister’s heart.

It didn’t seem likely though. Not after all this time. Sigrid certainly seemed to have given up hope long ago.

Alnir shook his head to try and get rid of the thoughts. This was going to be a long journey any way they looked at it; brooding over parting from their friends or Sigrid’s marriage prospects wasn’t likely to make it any more cheerful.

‘Do either of you remember who’s king in Rohan?’ he asked instead of thinking on it any longer. As he’d expected Sigrid immediately gave a sigh of exasperation.

‘Thengel is King and has been for over ten years, Alnir,’ she responded. ‘You know that. He sent messages to both of our fathers, and to Thorin and Thranduil, when he returned to Rohan to take the throne.’

‘I do love your optimism,’ Alnir told her brightly, grabbing her hand and guiding her into a brief series of dance steps just for the joy of watching her glare at him. ‘You still expect me to remember these things, no matter how often I prove that I take in only a tenth of everything Eric tells me.’

‘You paid more attention when Uncle Varr was Master,’ Sigrid replied pointedly. Alnir shrugged to acknowledge the fact. He had paid more attention then, but mostly because Father had given him such disappointed looks when he didn’t know something. Eric barely cared. He had set Alnir firmly on the ‘as long as he isn’t causing chaos he can do what he wants’ list years ago. It was a wonderful life most of the time. Alnir practically lived in the neighbouring kingdoms with his friends, making sure he was honed for battle.

He was very grateful for that now. It was a skill that was going to be useful on this journey.

‘The lad gets on well enough as he is,’ Bofur contributed. ‘He doesn’t need to remember any of it because you do it for him.’

‘One day I will not be there to remember it for him,’ Sigrid said darkly, eyeing them both with displeasure. Bofur laughed and winked at Alnir.

‘So you keep telling people, lass,’ he agreed. ‘I’m not sure any of them believe you anymore though.’

‘I am ten years older than Alnir,’ Sigrid informed Bofur as if he was likely to have forgotten. One of the worst parts of being the youngest of their odd little family (well, apart from Frodo anyway) was that they all took great joy in reminding him of the things he had done and said as a child. Sigrid, like King Thranduil, was particularly fond of reminding him that he had threatened to kick any number of those his father had later ruled.

Sigrid also liked to remind him of his rather unfortunate remarks to Lady Galadriel when he had first met her, but he had managed to keep her silent on that point through a particularly choice piece of blackmail. She really didn’t want her father to know where she had spent the evening of her seventeenth birthday. What Alnir would do when Bard finally passed he didn’t know. Beg, possibly.

‘I have complete faith in your ability to live just as long as Alnir does,’ Bofur assured Sigrid sincerely. ‘From sheer stubbornness if nothing else.’

‘I do not believe Mandos will accept, “Apologies, my lord, but I daren’t leave my friend to his own devices in case he brings doom to all of Arda” as an excuse for forestalling my fate, Bofur,’ Sigrid retorted.

‘Oi!’ Alnir was forced to protest. ‘That was uncalled for. I have never done anything that would bring doom to Arda. Or even to Lake-town. I’m not that bad!’

‘I’m fairly sure that Lake-town would have suffered had you succeeded in _borrowing_ the wood holding up the walkways so you could create training dummies like the ones in Erebor,’ Sigrid answered matter-of-factly.

‘That is not _doom_.’ Alnir cried. ‘And I was only eight!’

‘Have you noticed a great increase in his common sense as he got older?’ Sigrid asked Bofur seriously. Alnir was about to protest farther when he caught her eye and realised that she was definitely teasing him. His response was clear.

Reaching out, Alnir caught Sigrid about the waist and whirled her in circles until she shrieked.

‘Alnir, put me DOWN!’ she shouted. He considered his options for a moment before she added, ‘If you do not I will be sick.’

Then he dropped her.

Looking up at him from the ground Sigrid huffed in annoyance and grabbed Bofur’s hand when it was offered, hauling herself to her feet.

‘I am not speaking to you,’ she told him firmly, turning and stalking away muttering to herself.

Bofur looked at Alnir with a raised eyebrow.

‘Was that not a little dangerous, lad?’ the dwarf asked.

‘It won’t last,’ Alnir told him, unconcerned. ‘It never does.’

He was right. A few hours later Sigrid gave in and started responding to the questions he had been bombarding her with.

***

Bofur wasn’t sure he would ever understand the race of Men. They had been travelling for five days now, pushing themselves as hard as they could and resting only when it became too dark to see their way. They had begun to pass villages and hamlets the day before and Bofur found them baffling. The land was open and rolling, but it was not entirely without mountains. Why they chose to live in these vulnerable, fragile little dwellings, which could be burnt to the ground in an instant and would rot away within a few years, was beyond him.

He didn’t bother saying so, of course. He and Alnir had had this discussion about Lake-town more than once and Bofur had never been able to make the lad see sense. It was on a lake, for Mahal’s sake! What made things rot faster than being submerged in water? Bofur could build them a town that would last lifetimes given the right stone and a few years. With Bombur’s family still growing he would have plenty of labourers to help.

Not that he had ever mentioned that in public, of course. Quite apart from Thorin’s firm instructions that he was _not_ to suggest that Erebor start major building works without the permission of the King and his Council, Nula seemed to take exception when he borrowed the children to help with his projects. He’d need to wait until she’d forgiven him for teaching Bifa to swear before he tried that again.

One of the many good reasons to remain unmarried, in Bofur’s humble opinion. His brother’s spouse was a wonderful woman, but she got into snits about the oddest things.

Which led him neatly to another thing about Men he would never understand. Or in this case two particular Men. He would never understand why Sigrid and Alnir wouldn’t just admit that they were in love with one another and get married. He had dismissed it as none of his business for years, but Sigrid was almost beyond the age when she would be able to have children and still they pretended that they were not all-but married. He really couldn’t see what the problem was. They were more suited to one another than any number of married couples Bofur had come across.

It wasn’t as if their families were likely to object, either. Alnir was not a great one for responsibility, admittedly, but Fíli and Kíli were training that out of him bit by bit. Given another five years or so he’d be ready for a command somewhere and a little closer to being good enough for Bofur’s lass. If he married Sigrid then Bard would surely take him as a Captain for Dale’s soldiers.

Valar knew he’d be happier with Alnir as a son-in-law than he would have been with Bofur. Bard was no fool. He knew that his daughter was far too good for the likes of a miner, even one as rich as Bofur. If Bofur had thought that Sigrid was serious he would’ve married her years ago. Not as young as she had been when she first told him, of course. He would never have heard the end of it had he married someone not yet past her majority. Dwarven women had to be a good deal older than their human counterparts before they were allowed to marry, even accounting for the difference in their lifespans.

He would have married her, though, after a few years had passed. He had never come across any other woman who was so willing to just take him as he came. He knew any number who were driven to distraction by his refusal to be serious for any length of time. None of them seemed to understand that he could think seriously without all the glowering and brooding that Thorin was so fond of. Sigrid did. She had realised long ago that he laughed most when there was little to laugh about and had learned to laugh with him. He loved that in her.

He loved her.

Too much to marry her when she was too young to know what she wanted. Far too much to try and take her from one she so clearly loved now she was older. She’d grown so close to Alnir in the years that followed. It was clear enough now who she loved and it wasn’t Bofur, no matter what she had thought at seventeen.

Unfortunately the hints Bofur had been trying to give the two of them for the last few years weren’t working at all. Nor were any of the suggestions by other members of the family that now would be a good time for them to marry. The only ones not convinced that the two were made for each other, from what Bofur could tell, were Sigrid and Alnir. Well, Dori and Nori kept telling him to leave be, so perhaps they weren’t entirely convinced either, but then again they could just be tired of hearing about the whole thing.

Either way, Bofur was hoping that this journey would help the two of them to wake up and realise how ridiculous they were being. Preferably before something managed to kill them.

‘How far do we have to go?’ Alnir questioned suddenly, eyes locked on the mountains before them. Bofur knew that Edoras lay at the foot of those mountains and that the Rohirrim’s keep at Helm’s Deep lay beyond, hewn from the rock itself. At least the horse-people had some sense.

‘It shouldn’t be too much further,’ Sigrid answered, also eyeing the peaks before them. ‘At the pace we’ve been setting we could do it in a day or so.’

‘The sooner we arrive the better,’ Bofur suggested. ‘The last thing we need is for Saruman to have more time to organise his army.’

‘If I had elven foresight,’ Alnir said with a sigh, ‘I would be prophesying a long, cold, boring night of walking for myself.’

‘You sulk like Tilda’s youngest sometimes, I swear,’ Sigrid muttered. ‘Just keep walking. The faster we go the sooner we can stop.’

‘You should count yourself lucky,’ Bofur told Alnir, only half joking. ‘At least you don’t have to take twice as many steps to cover the same amount of ground.’

‘True enough,’ Alnir concurred. ‘Onward then. Hopefully Edoras will hold beds, food that has actually been cooked and ale.’

‘Agreed,’ Bofur said firmly, extending his stride the last little bit he had left. Mining all day took more effort than this, he reminded himself. More in the arms than the legs, true, but this was not the first time he had crossed Middle Earth on foot and mostly likely it would not be the last.

Better they move swiftly now than that they arrive at Isengard to find Saruman well-prepared to meet them and Gandalf already dead. If he wasn’t now. Bofur hoped not. Gandalf had been a good friend to his people over the years. It would be a cruel end for the wizard, to go now when there was still so much left for him to do.

***

One foot, then the other. Right and then left. Step, then step again. By the time the sun rose upon Edoras’ walls that was all Sigrid could think of. She felt as if she had not slept in weeks, for all that they had stopped during the darkest part of the night. Three or four hours sleep on rocky ground wasn’t unfamiliar to any of them, but it didn’t really leave enough energy for anything except continuing to doggedly walk forward.

‘It’s made of wood,’ she heard Bofur scoff off to one side. ‘They had that beautiful range of mountains right there and they made their city out of _wood_.’

Knowing that responding would only encourage him, Sigrid didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure Alnir was even listening. He’d stopped a couple of times in the last few hours, only for Sigrid to realise he’d fallen asleep standing up. For some time she had walked along gripping his hand so that she could tug him forward when he began to falter. He appeared to be mostly awake now but she was keeping an eye on him regardless.

‘Nearly there,’ she murmured to herself encouragingly. ‘Just keep going, it isn’t far now.’

It wasn’t far at all. Another hour or two of walking and they would be there. Sigrid had spent part of the night, before she had lost the ability to think properly, considering what she would say when they did arrive.

She didn’t know a great deal about Rohan and its people. They were a kingdom of horse-lords, that she did know. Sigrid hoped that they would be kind enough to lend her small group a horse or two for the march upon Isengard, or else they would be lucky to arrive three days later than the Rohirrim.

She had also heard that Rohan, in days gone by, had allowed shield-maidens to fight alongside its men. Sigrid hoped that it was not just a legend; it was always easier to deal with people who were used to women being able to fight. On the occasions she’d needed to travel to other settlements of Men, Sigrid had spent most of her time trying to convince people that it wasn’t actually necessary to have something dangling between your legs in order to pick up a sword. She wasn’t allowed to tell people so anymore, unfortunately. Bain had all-but pleaded that she leave such conversations to him after they were nearly run out of a small village when their elder took offense to her statement.

Although, really, with Bain several hundred miles away there was no reason why Sigrid had to hold to that agreement.

Either way, she would have to hope that Thengel was a man of wisdom and willing to admit that a woman could possess a brain. Otherwise the conversations would be left to Bofur and Alnir and nothing good would come of that.

When they did finally reach Edoras two hours later, Sigrid very nearly sank down onto the ground to have a nap. Unfortunately the idea didn’t come to her until they were already before Edoras’ gates and she decided that sleeping outside the city wasn’t likely to give a good impression.

The plan was firmly put to rest when one of the gate-guards appeared next to them within moments of Alnir stumbling to a halt, just as Sigrid and Bofur were following suit.

‘What business have you in Edoras?’ the guard asked with a slightly suspicious air. He was about three inches taller than Sigrid, which still left him shorter than Alnir by a fair bit, with the pale hair and eyes that Sigrid had heard most of his kin shared. He looked young as well, not more than fifteen, and reminded Sigrid of the young lads who joined Dale’s guard; eager to prove themselves and not always sensible with it.

‘I am Sigrid, daughter of Bard, Lord of Dale,’ she informed the lad, staring at him until he took his eyes off Alnir and turned her way. ‘My companions are Alnir of Lake-town and Bofur of Erebor. We need to speak to your King.’

‘With the King?’ the boy sputtered slightly. ‘You can’t just walk into Edoras and demand to speak to the King!’

‘Why not?’ Alnir contributed. ‘People walk into Lake-town and demand to speak to my brother all the time.’

‘I doubt your brother is the King of Lake-town,’ the lad said dismissively, eyeing Alnir’s travel-gear with a certain amount of disdain. Looking at it herself Sigrid almost laughed. The lad’s disbelief wasn’t entirely unwarranted. They were a mess, all three of them.

‘Of course he isn’t,’ Alnir countered with an air of weary patience. ‘Lake-town doesn’t have a king. We have a Master, who is my brother. He doesn’t turn away visitors who need to speak to him on the word of the gate-guard. I don’t imagine your King does either. So move out of the way and let us talk to someone who can help us.’

The poor boy nearly choked on a combination of hurt pride and outrage. Before Sigrid could intervene Bofur took pity on him and gave Alnir one of his, extremely rare, stern glances.

‘Leave the lad alone, Alnir,’ Bofur told him firmly. ‘It’s his job to question those he doesn’t know. Now, Master Guard, we have walked all the way from Lothlórien in the last few weeks and we are all exhausted. Is there any rule which says we can’t stay a night in an inn here?’

‘No,’ the guard answered. ‘That is, I don’t think so. I…’

‘Théoden is all well?’ the second gate-guard asked as he approached. What this lad, Théoden, lacked in experience his companion more than made up for. He was grey-bearded and his face heavily lined, mostly likely from years spent out in the sun. He still stood straight and the grip he had on the hilt of his sword, where it rested in its scabbard, was firm and confident. His was another type Sigrid knew well – an old soldier, training the younger most likely, who had seen it all in his time. His eyes, when they caught Sigrid’s own, were as blue as the lad’s and kind as well.

‘Yes, Odhrán,’ Théoden answered, seeming embarrassed. ‘These people are just looking for an inn.’

‘To begin with,’ Bofur said with one eye on the lad, who went red at having his omission pointed out. ‘After that we are hoping to speak with Thengel.’

Odhrán also gave his younger companion a glance but, seeing that he was already fairly discomfited, he said nothing more.

‘Well, Théoden was right to guide you to an inn first of all,’ Odhrán told them. ‘You’ll not get in to see the King looking like that.’

‘We are rather a state,’ Sigrid acknowledged with a small smile at young Théoden. Old though she felt sometimes, she did remember the days when she was so fervent in her duties. Mostly because certain dwarven princes thought it was hilarious to recall them frequently when she tried to curb their mayhem. ‘Baths and meals would be no bad thing before we try asking for an audience.’

Something in what she said, though Sigrid had no idea what it was, caught Odhrán’s attention.

‘Théoden will have asked your names, I’m sure,’ Odhrán said to them. ‘It is our duty to know all who enter Edoras.’

The implication was clear and Théoden hurried to enlighten him.

‘They say that they are come from the North, Odhrán. The dwarf is from Erebor and the man and woman are from towns nearby.’

‘Dale,’ Alnir said with more than a little impatience, ‘is a _city_ and my name is not “the man”. I am Alnir of Lake-town, Master Odhrán. My dwarven companion is Bofur, son of Bamfir, of Erebor and this is Lady Sigrid of Dale.’

‘Of course, I am sorry to keep you standing here, my lady’ the older guard said hurriedly, clearly wishing to hasten things along before Alnir lost his temper. ‘We will let you be on your way.’ Sigrid gave him a grateful, and sympathetic, look. She could only assume that Alnir’s shortness was due to how tired he was, for he was not normally this irritable. She would have to make sure he apologised to both of the guards once he was human again.

‘There is an inn up the hill,’ Théoden informed them apologetically at a glance from Odhrán. ‘It has a good reputation and they should have rooms to spare. Thengel-King will no doubt offer you rooms in the Hall once you have spoken to him.’

By which he meant ‘once Thengel has decided you are who you say you are’, Sigrid concluded. She kept forgetting how far they were from home. Close to Dale and Erebor the three of them would be known almost anywhere they went. Rather than prolong the conversation any further, Sigrid gave the two guards a slight bow, caught hold of Alnir’s arm and steered him up the hill as they had been directed. Bofur followed behind, oddly quiet considering what had just happened. Even as she thought so he broke the silence, though his comment wasn’t anything Sigrid had expected.

‘Did either of you think to bring your purses with you when we left Lothlórien?’ the miner asked them curiously. ‘Or can I assume I’m paying for these rooms?’

***

Despite all their plans to the contrary, Sigrid and the other two fell into bed once they had bathed and eaten and didn’t wake until it was almost evening. This led to some debate about whether they would even be able to get an audience with Thengel so late in the day but, just as they had decided that there was no harm in trying, a man garbed in armour and holding a horse-tailed helm under one arm entered the common room of the inn.

Immediately most of the activity in the room stilled. The innkeeper’s wife, who had been yelling at the cook to hurry up, continued at full volume for a second or two before she realised she was the only one speaking and turned around hastily. When she saw who was standing in her inn her face grew concerned.

‘I am come to speak to three of your guests, Mistress,’ the soldier told her easily, though his smile did not reach his eyes. ‘No need for anyone to stop on my account.’ With that he approached the table where Sigrid and her companions sat and the noise in the inn picked up again, though they were the subject of any number of curious glances.

‘Lady Sigrid, Master Alnir, Master Bofur,’ the guard said quietly, appraising them as he spoke, ‘Thengel-King would have your company in the Golden Hall.’ Alnir, who had thankfully regained his usual cheer, smiled widely.

‘Well, that does make things easier,’ he said happily, rising from his seat. ‘We were worried that if we went now we might be interrupting the King’s meal.’

Sigrid and Bofur also rose and the soldier began to walk towards the door without commenting further or giving Alnir any response at all. Exchanging confused looks Sigrid, Alnir and Bofur followed him out and up the path to Meduseld. They did not speak, nor did the soldier speak to them, and Sigrid began to become concerned that they had managed to offend the King somehow without even meeting him. That would not bode well for their plans.

Finally, sometime later, they reached the top of the hill and were able to mount the steps and enter Thengel’s hall. The throne room was full of people but it immediately became apparent that the King was not among them. Again they received curious looks, but the soldier crossed the room as if this was exactly what he had expected. Sigrid continued to follow, side-stepping a pair of young dogs growling and rough-housing on the floor, and was led through a door and down a quiet corridor to another set of doors. Golden horses in the design of Thengel’s heraldry were painted onto the wood and Sigrid concluded that they were being taken to a private audience. This was confirmed when the soldier knocked sharply and was let in by one of the King’s household, who directed them into a large chamber with a long table at its centre. Behind the table sat a number of chairs clustered together.

There, near the fire burning brightly in a hearth, sat a man who must be Thengel, King of Rohan. Next to him was a woman Sigrid assumed was his wife, Morwen, and, much to Sigrid’s surprise, the gate-guard they had spoken to that morning.

With a quick nod Thengel dismissed their escort, who bowed low before leaving the room. Then Thengel gestured at the empty chairs around him and spoke quietly.

‘Please, sit,’ he invited them. ‘My thanks for joining us.’

Sigrid saw Bofur twitch slightly from the corner of her eye and years of familiarity allowed her to translate that as, ‘we didn’t really have much choice, did we?’ though Bofur didn’t actually say anything.

Sigrid found she felt a little wary, though nothing that had happened so far was particularly out of the ordinary. It was strange that the gate-guard was present at their audience with the King, but as she looked more closely at the lad and then at the King a suspicion began to dawn.

‘Yes,’ Thengel answered before she had even asked, ‘this is my son, Théoden. He trains with the guard and has begun as many of their lads do, watching the city gates. He told me that we had visitors to Edoras who desired an audience with me and I was curious.’

‘Please, do sit down,’ Thengel’s wife spoke when none of them moved. ‘The cold is drawing in tonight and you will be much more comfortable over here.’

Reminded that they weren’t being particularly well-mannered, Sigrid moved to take a seat and Alnir and Bofur followed. Just as they did so a small door to one side of the room opened and a girl of about sixteen entered, moving across the room to sit next to Morwen.

‘They are all in bed then?’ Morwen said to the lass with a smile.

‘Finally,’ the girl responded. ‘I had to get Eorl halfway to the Field of Celebrant before Théodwyn would go to sleep. She is a menace.’

‘As you were at her age,’ Morwen answered chidingly. ‘None of you have ever liked being told to go to sleep.’ Then Morwen looked over at Sigrid and gave another smile.

‘My daughter, Olwyn,’ she introduced. ‘My son tells me that you are Lady Sigrid of Dale.’

‘I am,’ Sigrid answered plainly, not sure what else she was meant to say.

‘You are far from home, then, Lady Sigrid,’ Thengel noted. ‘What brings you to Rohan?’

‘Ill news, I am afraid,’ Sigrid answered. ‘My companions and I were summoned to a Council in Lothlórien some months ago. Messengers were also sent to your kingdom and to Gondor, but when no one arrived and the messenger did not return we presumed him dead. We came to bring tidings from the Council and to tell you of the treachery we discovered on our way here.’

‘Indeed,’ Thengel said, eyes bright with interest but cautious as well. ‘Then we will be happy to hear your news. First, however, I think we had best be sure of who we speak with. I presume you will not mind proving that you are indeed Lady Sigrid of Dale. I mean no offence, but you have arrived in a strange manner and with unusual company. It would be remiss of me to take counsel from you when you could be anyone at all.’

Sigrid sighed silently. It was going to be a long evening.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One question I wanted to ask - do people have a preference for how the coming chapters should be grouped? We're going to have quite a few different parties to follow and I can have three or four chapters dealing with Rohan, then move on to a few about Gondor etc, or I can swap from one party to another each chapter. I have no strong preference so if you have an opinion then let me know!


	19. Decoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time to worry is always when things are going too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are moving between parties each chapter - on reflection I decided that would make it easier to keep the momentum going, although I am not ruling out sticking with one group for a couple of chapters if it seems right.
> 
> Thank you to ISeeFire, as always, for the quick beta.

Chapter Eighteen: Decoy

‘This is one of those parts they never mention in the epic tales,’ Pippin said morosely as he stared at the contents of his pack, spread across the stones around them to dry. ‘It’s all glorious battle and songs written about the hero’s great deeds. No one ever mentions what happens when all your clothes get wet and you don’t have any dry ones to put on.’

They had crossed the Entwade earlier that day, splitting from Bilbo and the others as soon as they could. No one wanted Sméagol near the ring any longer than necessary, so they had decided to travel separately even when it would seem more sensible to travel together. Especially once Frodo had pointed out a major flaw in their original plan. One which not even Elladan and Legolas had previously thought of.

_‘What happens if we get to Mordor before the army arrives?’ Frodo had asked worriedly as they all stood together that morning, gazing across the Entwade and considering their options. ‘We need the distraction, but they have to go and gather all their soldiers and march to Mordor before it will be safe for us to try and enter.’_

_The rest of the party had all turned to stare at him in astonishment. Frodo had shifted nervously but refused to look away. Pippin admired his bravery. Pippin’s own plan had been to draw as little attention to himself as possible until he was away from Bilbo._

_‘We…,’ Prince Fíli had uttered incoherently, before turning to look at Prince Kíli in astonishment. ‘Why didn’t we think of that?’ he continued, sounding honestly baffled._

_‘Too many blows to the head?’ Prince Kíli had responded in a similarly disbelieving tone. They had both then turned to Elladan, who was shaking his head slowly._

_‘He is right,’ Elladan stated. ‘If we continue at this rate you would reach the Anduin in two weeks, three at most. From there to the path Gandalf advised, past Minas Morgul and then on to Mount Doom would be another two weeks or so at a guess. It is 200 leagues from Erebor to the Morannan. If they made the journey in a month and a half it would be a miracle.’_

_‘How long do they need?’ Bilbo asked, face drawn into a frown of concentration._

_‘To gather all the different armies and then march to the Morannan, with the dwarves on foot…’ Elladan answered, clearly thinking aloud and pausing for a moment at the end of the sentence, ‘two and a half months most likely. Father will ride hard to meet the rest of the armies at the far edge of the Woodland Realm, that will help, but once they reunite with Erebor they will have to slow or risk leaving your people behind.’_

_Bilbo muttered something impolite, which Pippin assumed was in the language of the dwarves. It seemed to be a good language for swearing, harsh and guttural in a satisfying sort of way. Not that Pippin was allowed to get away with swearing. Merry had quite literally washed his mouth out with soap once, not realising it was just a turn of phrase. It had been the most disgusting thing Pippin had ever undergone and he had no intention of risking it happening again, no matter how unlikely it was._

_‘So we are in the bizarre situation,’ Bilbo concluded, ‘of needing to slow down.’_

_‘You are,’ Aragorn agreed. ‘We, on the other hand, need to move as fast as possible. Gondor will need time to amass its armies and sending messages to the southern lands will be no short task.’_

So it had been decided. Merry, Pippin, Elladan, Aragorn and Sméagol would cross the Entwade and then turn south-east, passing over the smaller runoffs from the Entwash into Anorien before rejoining the Greenway and making for Minas Tirith. Bilbo and his companions would travel south and remain in Rohan for some time before entering Anorien, slowing their progress and also giving Pippin’s group time to get Sméagol as far away from them as possible.

All of which, unfortunately, had led to the situation Pippin was in now – soaked to the bone from crossing the Entwade and with everything he had been carrying similarly wet.

‘We did warn you to keep the pack out of the water,’ Aragorn pointed out from across the fire, where he was holding his boots upside down in an attempt to drain out the last of the water.

‘Which is easy to say when you are ridiculously tall and so _weren’t_ the one with water up to your waist,’ Pippin retorted. ‘Or the one with his hands bound and so the one who lost his balance and ended up flat on his back in the river!’ Aragorn laughed and fixed Pippin with a knowing look.

‘I did offer to carry you,’ he noted, which just made things worse. Yes, he had offered to carry Pippin and Pippin had refused because he wanted to prove that he could do the journey on his own. See if he made that mistake again.

‘We is _wet_ ,’ Sméagol said in a tone of utter disgust, the first comment he had made since they had started walking that morning. Or at least the first comment actually aimed at anyone other than himself.

‘We know, Sméagol,’ Merry answered calmly. ‘We are all wet, unfortunately, but we’ll dry out. Besides, you like water, don’t you?’

‘We likes water for swimming and catching fish,’ Sméagol responded gloomily, still not actually looking at Merry or any of their companions. ‘We is not liking being wet!’

‘Then you are in good company, Sméagol,’ Elladan said, deliberately putting himself in Sméagol’s line of vision, ‘for we do not like being wet either. I still do not understand how my hair managed to get wet when the water never got above my knees.’

‘Vengeance,’ Pippin commented firmly. ‘The world’s vengeance on ridiculously tall people.’

Sméagol snorted at that, as did Merry, and Pippin looked over at Sméagol hopefully. He was still resolutely refusing to look at anyone. Pippin sighed quietly. He opened his mouth to try and speak to Sméagol again, only to stop at a touch on his arm.

‘Let him sulk, Pip,’ Merry advised softly. ‘He knows why we did this. He just doesn’t want to understand at the moment. He’s stopped hissing and spitting, at least. That’s something.’

Pippin sighed again, but then he nodded almost imperceptibly. Merry was right. Sméagol had been quiet during their last few hours of travel, watching carefully when he thought Pippin wasn’t looking but saying nothing. Perhaps that was the best they could hope for, for now.

***

When Elladan saw his brother again, he decided on their fourth day of travel, they were going to have words about paying attention to one’s charges and not letting them escape. Life would be a great deal easier right now if Elrohir had managed to keep Sméagol with him. At least Pippin would not spend all his time looking miserable and Sméagol would not be making Elladan feel horribly guilty for tying his hands to Elladan’s own wrist before going to sleep.

Sméagol was still with them in the morning this way, which was more than could be said for Elrohir.

Perhaps Elladan was trying too hard to find a bright side to the situation, but it did seem to him that Sméagol was calming as they walked. He had not fought them at all after the first mile or two and was making no real attempts to slow them down or escape. Sméagol would not look at them or speak to them properly, but that was hardly the worst reaction they could have hoped for.

Focusing on trying to understand Sméagol’s behaviour did give him something to do, which was something Elladan needed at the moment. Being constantly on edge was tiring, but even more so when there was nothing happening at all. Not that he necessarily wanted something to happen, given all the possibilities, but he was getting more than slightly bored. Hurrying did not actually make travelling more exciting; it just meant that you were bored whilst moving faster.

‘I am beginning to understand why Alnir made up all of those travelling games,’ Elladan told Estel a few hours after dawn, when the mouths of the Entwash were starting to come into view.

‘Do not tell me that after thousands of years of travelling this is the first time you have ever lacked for amusement,’ Estel replied with a roll of his eyes.

‘Normally I have Elrohir,’ Elladan said, pausing for a moment to allow Sméagol to catch up with his strides before beginning to walk again.

‘If you start pouting as well I am going to take Merry and leave the rest of you behind,’ Estel informed him. ‘We would doubtless make much better time.’

Elladan decided not to answer. Estel was clearly in an unsympathetic mood, in which case talking to him was a complete waste of time. This was why he needed Elrohir, Elladan decided, wholly ignoring the fact that his brother had turned being unsympathetic into his life’s work.

Elladan’s introspection was interrupted some time later when Sméagol suddenly stopped dead beside him. He turned, intending to ask Sméagol what the problem was, when their companion-turned-prisoner let out a shriek, apparently of fear, and began to shake violently. Estel spun about so sharply that Elladan almost expected him to topple over, taking two large steps until he was before Sméagol.

‘What?’ he asked quickly. ‘Sméagol, what is it?’

Sméagol did not answer, curling himself into a ball and doing a very good impression of one trying to burrow themselves into the ground.

‘What on Arda…’ Merry spoke as he and Pippin hurried forwards. Merry reached out to try and uncurl Sméagol’s body but Sméagol absolutely refused to be moved, hands clutching the top of his head and one foot kicking out when Merry tried to tug his arms down.

‘Elladan, what’s he doing?’ Pippin queried, looking up at Elladan with a half-concerned, half-suspicious expression. ‘Did something happen or…’

Pippin trailed off but it did not take too much insight to guess what he was thinking. Was Sméagol trying to slow them down, or trying to get them to untie him so that he could escape?

‘I know not,’ Elladan answered, ‘but we cannot stay here like this for long. Sméagol, enough!’

The last came out in a voice of command he rarely used outside of battle and, while it did not get Sméagol to stand up again, it did stop the ululating shrieks he had been making.

Elladan and Estel shared a swift look and, agreement reached, Elladan leant down and lifted Sméagol off the floor. Estel was surveying the area with keen eyes, searching for some explanation for this strange turn of events, but he could see nothing. No more could Elladan.

‘Perhaps Bilbo has taken the ring beyond his ability to sense it,’ he suggested to Estel as they moved on hurriedly. ‘We do not know what its reach is.’

‘Can he sense it at all?’ Estel asked, reaching back to usher Merry and Pippin in front of them, slitting the rope binding Pippin with one slice of the dagger that had appeared in his hand. If possible, Pippin’s face grew more frightened and Merry’s grimmer. ‘It was near enough in Lothlórien and we had no trouble with him until he saw Bilbo.’

Elladan could not answer. All that they knew of the ring’s effects was mere conjecture. Even Father had not felt confident enough to claim he understood how the ring had turned Sméagol as it had, or the form that its hold on him took. They knew only that it was strong and that Sméagol’s will was often too weak to deny it.

‘He’s frightened,’ Pippin announced then. He had turned and walked backwards for a few steps, assessing Sméagol, before facing forwards once more. His tone was not accusing, but surprisingly matter-of-fact despite his anxiety. ‘This is just how he was when you found us on the way to Rivendell.’

That was true enough, Elladan realised. Sméagol appeared to have an unusual reaction to fright sometimes. Where others would strike out, or turn and run, Sméagol tended to huddle into a ball and pretend that he was invisible. Which, thinking about the ring and its abilities, suddenly made more sense.

‘Sméagol, I need you to tell me what is wrong,’ Elladan told the figure curled in his arms as firmly as he could. ‘What is frightening you?’ He hoped fervently that this was not some trick of Sméagol’s. Quite apart from the annoyance of being alarmed for no reason, Elladan would also feel extremely stupid if he had been so easily tricked.

Sméagol made a hiccoughing sound but gave no reply. Elladan exchanged another worried glance with Estel and tried to hurry even more. He felt guilty when the hobbits had to break into a jog to keep up, but he did not regret it. Not when he realised what had caused Sméagol’s outburst.

***

Aragorn feared a great many things in life.

He feared to lose Arwen’s love, to be without the light that brightened even the darkest of his days.

He feared to shame his line, as Isildur had done, to prove unworthy of the responsibility they had been entrusted with.

He feared to fail in that duty; to allow Sauron to spread his evil across the world and to see innocent people die because he had not the skill to protect them.

He feared to die, though that was the fear that shamed him the most.

Now, in this moment, he faced the embodiment of any number of those fears.

The Nazgûl. His cautionary tale.

Men who had reached for power and, in reaching for it, destroyed themselves and left Middle Earth open to an evil that had no limit. A greed for power so great it would devour all the world and still never be satiated.

Looking at the wraiths before him, Aragorn saw what he could become if he did not hold true to all he had been taught… and he feared them.

His only comfort was that the ring was miles from here, in the hands of a hobbit. Hobbits, he had learned of late, were remarkably determined and resilient creatures.

Perhaps Aragorn might fail, if put to the test, but he trusted that Bilbo and Frodo would not.

It was that thought that gave him the strength he needed. Pushing aside his fear for the moment, Aragorn reached for Andúril and steadied his hand. The hobbits needed a clear journey to Mordor in order to do their part. They needed these creatures of nightmare far away.

It was up to Aragorn to see that done.

He was not the only one to come to that conclusion. Next to him his foster-brother was laying Sméagol on the ground, reaching for his bow, already nocking an arrow. Before him Merry and Pippin were drawing their own daggers, as good as swords for the two hobbits, and holding them ready as he had taught them. All of them were gazing to the north, tracking the progress the Nazgûl were making towards them.

‘Merry,’ he heard Pippin whisper as they did so, ‘remind me why we decided to do this.’

‘We have to try, Pip,’ Merry answered in the same whispered tone. ‘We have to try and help destroy Sauron.’

Pippin whimpered a little, eyes still locked on the four black-cloaked figures stalking towards them. He shook as violently as Sméagol had previously, clearly terrified and trying to pretend otherwise.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by another noise.

‘Let me go,’ a voice said, startling them all. Aragorn tried to keep an eye on the approaching Nazgûl whilst looking for whoever had spoken. He wasn’t particularly successful.

Then he did not need to move at all, for the speaker became obvious.

‘Let me go,’ Sméagol repeated, moving in front and staring north as fiercely as any of them. It struck Aragorn that this was only the second time he had heard Sméagol speak of himself as one person. The hobbit’s usual ‘we’ was suddenly missing.

‘Sméagol,’ Merry said hesitantly and Sméagol looked straight at him for the first time in days. Against all the odds he smiled.

‘Hobbits can tie me up again afterwards,’ he said softly, ‘but Sméagol came to protect them. Can’t do that tied up.’

No, he could not. Nor could he protect himself, which he was going to need to do very shortly. Making the decision instantly, Aragorn reached down and sliced Sméagol’s bonds as he had cut Pippin’s not so long ago. He offered a quick prayer to Eru that he would not regret it.

The whole exchange had taken only seconds, though it felt like hours. The Nazgûl, so easily spotted over the flat plains before them, were still a distance away but moving closer every moment. Aragorn was readying himself for the battle to come when Sméagol offered another suggestion.

‘Nightmares coming too close,’ he said resolutely. ‘Time to run.’

Aragorn heard Elladan choke briefly behind him.

‘We would be running towards them, Sméagol,’ Elladan pointed out swiftly.

‘Gondor is south,’ Sméagol answered, with a distinct “please try not to be stupid” tone to his voice, ‘nightmares is north. Run south.’

‘We _are_ outmatched,’ was Aragorn’s offering when Elladan silently asked his opinion, ‘and they are on foot.’

‘I like running,’ Pippin chimed in nervously. ‘Running away is an excellent idea.’

‘It would keep them busy,’ Merry added. ‘Busier than if they managed to kill us, anyway.’

Elladan thought for one second longer and then nodded.

‘To use Gandalf’s favourite phrase,’ he pronounced with a calm Aragorn envied, ‘run!’

******


	20. Accidents of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only takes a second...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy - if so, please let me know, it helps keep me motivated when the chapters don't want to cooperate. Like this one! :)
> 
> Huge thanks to ISeeFire, who feels awful and beta-ed this anyway because she is amazing.

Chapter Nineteen: Accidents of Fate

‘This is getting annoying _really_ quickly,’ Kíli hissed to Fíli as they crouched behind a boulder, trying to avoid the notice of the horsemen riding past.

This was the third patrol they’d dodged since splitting from Elladan, his foster-brother and the hobbits and Kíli was getting heartily sick of it. The Rohirrim didn’t seem to consider boulders or other features of the landscape as obstacles at all. If something was in the way they’d split their group apart, ride on either side and then come together again when they were past it. Which was very efficient, of course, but rather inconvenient when you had a very good reason for wanting to avoid their notice. Kíli felt as if he was playing hide and go seek with an entire herd of horses and their spear-loving riders, constantly trying to guess which way they were going to go and then get out of their way before he was spotted.

Fíli scoffed in response. Kíli didn’t kick him.

Well, not hard, anyway.

Mum wasn’t here, after all. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Kíli.

‘You’re enjoying yourself,’ Fíli said rather breathlessly as they sprinted behind another boulder just as the Rohirrim rounded the corner of the first they had been hiding behind. Legolas, Bilbo and Frodo were already there. Only Legolas looked entirely unaffected by the ridiculous situation they were in.

‘Kíli may be but I am not,’ Bilbo huffed quietly as he tried to pull more air into his lungs. ‘We were supposed to be going slowly. I rather thought that would involve less running around.’

‘They’re gone,’ Legolas informed them in a less hushed tone. Bilbo gave a sigh of relief and sank to the ground.

‘I’m not moving for at least an hour,’ he announced as he did so. ‘I’m too old for this!’

‘Uncle did try to tell you…’ Kíli began, then trailed off when he received Bilbo’s most severe glare. ‘Never mind, pretend I said nothing.’

‘We normally do,’ Fíli assured him. Really, some days Kíli had no idea why he loved his brother so much. Being an only child must have so many benefits.

‘We have time to rest a while,’ Fíli said then, blithely unaware of Kíli’s thoughts. ‘Legolas, there’s no one else about is there?’

‘Not as far as I can see,’ Legolas answered. He had found a dip in the boulder and had jumped up to survey their surroundings. ‘No, the Rohirrim are far enough away that they could not see us, so for now we are alone.’

‘Good,’ Fíli commented with a rather evil smile. ‘Training time. Up you get, Frodo.’

As his uncle had so many years ago, Frodo gave out a moan of displeasure.

‘Fíli, I’ve only just sat down,’ he whined discontentedly. ‘I’ve almost finished my training with Dwalin anyway. Shouldn’t Uncle Bilbo…’

‘Finish that sentence, Frodo Baggins, and you will not sit down again for a week,’ Bilbo said tartly. Frodo’s expression was mutinous but he made no further comment.

‘Bilbo will be doing his own training once he has regained his breath,’ Fíli assured Frodo. Now it was Bilbo’s turn to look mutinous. Kíli considered staying sensibly silent. Then he remembered that common sense was for other people.

‘You need the training, Bilbo,’ he told their hobbit earnestly. ‘You haven’t kept it up the way you should and you know it. If you had you wouldn’t be so out of breath right now.’

With that Bilbo couldn’t argue. He considered it anyway, by Kíli’s guess, but changed his mind before he got round to speaking.

‘Very well, then,’ Bilbo agreed, ‘but not until I have had a chance to convince my body it does not hate me.’

Kíli nodded and left the rest of the battle to Fíli. Bilbo had spoken of learning the bow at various points since they had retaken Erebor but had never done anything about it. His training with his little dagger was Fíli’s problem. Which was another thought Kíli wasn’t going to voice. Bilbo’s Sting might be small, but he kept it well-honed.

‘I am going to find us something to eat,’ Legolas proclaimed suddenly, still perched above them on his rock. ‘Do not go anywhere until I get back.’

‘Yes, because obviously our first act once you were gone would be to run off and leave you behind,’ Bilbo grumbled quietly, not loud enough for Legolas to hear.

Kíli slumped to the floor next to Bilbo in an untidy pile of limbs. Somehow part of his hair caught on his quiver and he was silent for several seconds while he tried to untangle himself without yanking any hair out. Once he had succeeded, mostly, he shifted until he was facing Bilbo.

‘You’re unusually grumpy today,’ Kíli said in his best “what? The cake’s gone? No, I haven’t a clue, I’ve been in the training room all afternoon” tone. Bilbo didn’t fall for it anymore now than he did when the cake disappeared, alas.

‘I was under the impression that the old were meant to be cantankerous,’ Bilbo responded pointedly.

‘Bilbo,’ Kíli said in turn, using the expression Balin had taught him, mostly by virtue of using it on Kíli every time he was dancing around the truth. This one did work, thankfully.

‘The ring is a little tetchy today, that is all,’ Bilbo sighed. ‘It is… oh, I do not know how to explain it! It pulls at me, some times more than others. Most of all when the Rohirrim are near, for some reason.’

Kíli thought about that for a moment, then winced.

‘Nine rings for mortal men, doomed to die,’ he murmured to himself, remembering the poem Mum had taught them years and years before. Then he looked at Bilbo and continued, ‘For the mortal men who succumbed to the power of the ring.’

‘Yes, I suppose that was rather obvious, wasn’t it?’ Bilbo replied in a mocking voice clearly aimed at himself. ‘Why else do we keep avoiding them?’

‘Is it bad?’ Kíli asked, not sure what else to say.

‘It is worse than I have known it,’ was Bilbo’s response. ‘Whether it is as bad as the ring can be – well, I doubt it. I don’t imagine Sméagol was the result of a little pain every now and then. I will make do.’

‘One of us could take it,’ Kíli offered mildly, keeping Bilbo in the corner of his eye even as he looked towards Frodo and Fíli’s sparring match.

What he saw was Bilbo’s hand shooting up to grab hold of the ring through his shirt and cloak, gripping tightly for a moment as Bilbo’s face fell into a deep frown. Then, just as suddenly, he forced his hand open and also forced the frown off his face.

‘Not right now,’ he told Kíli a moment or two later, voice deliberately even. ‘I will be fine.’

‘The offer’s open,’ Kíli stated in an almost identical tone, ‘if ever you need it.’

‘Thank you,’ was all Bilbo said. He sounded as if he meant it though. That was as much as Kíli thought he could hope for.

***

They were only partway through reminding Bilbo how to guard himself properly when Legolas reappeared at speed. The look on their elven friend’s face wasn’t panicked, exactly, but it was the closest equivalent that Kíli had ever seen Legolas wear.

‘What?’ Kíli asked him before he’d even come to a halt. Frodo was already back on his feet with his sword drawn and Kíli was quickly swapping his sword for his bow. That look meant trouble and Kíli preferred to greet trouble from a distance by putting an arrow through its eye.

‘Yrch!’ Legolas spat, not seeming to notice that he had spoken in his own tongue rather than Common. ‘A group of them must have approached from the west as I was heading north to hunt. They have trackers with them and they are on our trail.’

‘More running,’ Bilbo said disconsolately, grabbing his pack and hefting it onto his back once more. Fíli did the same, throwing Kíli’s own pack to him as he did so. Kíli had barely finished getting the straps settled when Legolas hissed out a curse.

‘They are coming this way and quickly,’ he told their small group, standing to one side of the boulder and gazing out to the west. ‘They must have caught our scent for they are running as if Sauron was behind them.’

‘How many?’ Fíli asked worriedly, looking about them in concern. Apart from the few boulders they had used to hide from the Rohirrim earlier there was no cover for a good few miles. If they ran they would be easily spotted, even if the trackers did lose their scent.

‘Thirty,’ Legolas responded. ‘Not a big party but…’

They all knew what came after that. Five against thirty meant six against each one of them. Not bad odds for Legolas and the dwarves, but with Frodo, Bilbo and the ring at risk the chance was far too high.

For a long moment Legolas and Fíli stood looking at one another, both seeming paralysed by uncertainty. Did they run or did they stay put and hope the orcs missed them? They had the cloaks Galadriel had given them, those had helped earlier against one party of Rohirrim, but cloaks would not put the orcs off their scent. The Snowbourn river was to the south and would mask their scent, but it was another two or three days journey from where they were.

‘I think we’re running out of time,’ Frodo announced, breaking the silence. ‘They’re speeding up!’

‘They are,’ Bilbo concurred, ‘but I think they might go past if we’re careful. The way they’re angled now they’ll miss us.’

They all crouched behind the boulder, cloaks wrapped tight around themselves and bodies tensed to try and keep themselves as still as possible. They were all silent, apart from one quick, quiet comment from Legolas.

‘Even if they go past us now we will have to do something about them,’ he murmured. ‘We cannot fool them forever.’

Kíli nodded his head in agreement and saw Fíli do the same. What they would do about the orcs he didn’t know, but something would have to be done.

Iron booted feet pounding on the ground sent vibrations that Kíli could feel in his bones. The feeling grew stronger as the orcs approached, stronger than he had expected from a party of thirty, and Kíli found he was holding his breath until he saw white stars behind his eyes. At that point he decided that passing out from a lack of air would probably help the orcs more than hinder them.

Then Kíli heard something he hadn’t expected. The shrill whinny of a horse issuing a challenge, taken up by a number of other horses afterwards.

‘Rohirrim,’ Bilbo gasped with no small amount of relief. ‘They’ll kill the orcs.’

Kíli shared the same hope, closing his eyes for a moment as he uttered a small prayer to Mahal and whoever took responsibility for the horsemen, apologising for his complaining earlier.

He soon wished he hadn’t bothered.

***

Frodo knew that adventures must be hard and difficult things to undertake. When his uncles spoke of their quest to retake Erebor they often mocked each other about things like the weight Uncle Bombur had lost because they had to ration their food, or Uncle Dori’s constant displeasure over the amount of mud involved. He knew better than to think that an adventure would be easy.

He would admit, however, that he hadn’t expected to spend so much time utterly terrified. It was like being thumped in the stomach by the flat of Gimli’s axe when they were training, this feeling that he couldn’t breathe properly. He was shaking, his hands most of all, and Uncle Bilbo had taken his hand after a few seconds and clasped it tight in reassurance. It did help a little, but Frodo wished he didn’t need such things. He wanted so much to be as brave as his cousins, neither of whom seemed to be panicking as he was.

When Uncle Bilbo sighed out the comment about the Rohirrim Frodo thought for one wonderful, shining moment that they would be fine. The Rohirrim would deal with the orcs and be on their way and then Frodo and his companions could come out of hiding and carry on.

Then one of the orcs shouted to his fellows loudly enough that Frodo could hear it easily.

‘Stay here and kill the horse-filth,’ he roared, presumably talking to some of his fellow orcs. ‘The rest of you move your arses and _find me those dwarves_!’

The word Fíli uttered then wasn’t the slightest bit polite. Frodo was no longer shocked to hear Uncle Bilbo echo him. He had heard his uncle swear more in the last few weeks than he had in all the years he had known him.

‘Why us?’ Kíli muttered under his breath. ‘Why are they looking for dwarves?’

‘Why do you think? No one expects a hobbit to be running around with a ring of power,’ Uncle Bilbo answered. ‘That is the least of our worries, Kíli.’

‘The Rohirrim are mounted,’ Fíli murmured reassuringly. ‘They will catch the orcs. Just stay quiet.’

They did, Frodo still gripping his uncle’s hand tightly, listening to the sounds of battle raging behind them. His stomach lurched when he heard a scream that could only be from a Man, then again when he heard an orc’s braying insults stopped halfway through, followed by a distinct thud. The fighting had neared their hiding place even faster than Frodo had expected. A few minutes later a severed orcish head rolled past and Frodo felt a surge of satisfaction.

The battle seemed to last an eternity, then suddenly it was done in a flash. Frodo heard a human voice begin to shout commands, heard a few sharp whistles and then the sounds of men dismounting and several disgusted comments about orcs and their bathing habits.

‘We’ll need to find those dwarves the orcs were talking about,’ the same human voice said, suddenly much closer than it had been. ‘If they’re running about bringing orcs onto our lands then we need to know why. The orcs were coming this way; search the area.’

Legolas looked over at Frodo and Bilbo, placed one finger to his lips and signalled for them to begin crawling away from the battle site. Frodo let go of Uncle Bilbo’s hand and performed a rather graceless manoeuvre that allowed him to slide onto his stomach. Beside him Uncle Bilbo was doing the same, as were the others.

Unfortunately Frodo had only crawled a few inches when another human voice froze him.

‘Captain,’ the Man called, ‘we don’t need to search. I’ve found them.’

One of the horse-men stood before them, clutching the orcish head that had rolled by earlier by the hair.

***

‘Who are you?’ the Rohirric Captain asked for what had to be the fifth time. ‘Why have you come to Rohan?’

‘I have _told_ you,’ Fíli responded with no little impatience. ‘I am Fíli, son of Vili, of Erebor. My companions are also inhabitants of Erebor, aside from Legolas, who hails from the Woodland Realm.’

‘The two little ones don’t look like any dwarves I ever heard of,’ the Captain’s lieutenant responded immediately. ‘They’re holbytlan like in the old tales.’ The man had made that comment twice now and Bilbo had clearly had enough of it.

‘I am a hobbit, yes. That hardly precludes my living in Erebor,’ he informed the Rohirrim irritably. ‘I am Bilbo Baggins, formerly of the Shire. I have now changed abode. It is not a complicated concept.’

‘Considering that you are trespassing on lands which do not belong to you, Master Baggins of Erebor,’ the Captain said sharply, ‘you might want to mind your tone!’

‘How can we be trespassing?’ Fíli asked incredulously. ‘We are walking from one place to another over miles of empty land. You cannot detain people for travelling, for goodness’ sake.’

‘When those travellers bring orcs on their tail we will do as we see fit,’ the Captain responded. ‘Put down your weapons and hold out your hands. You will be taken to Edoras so that our commander may decide for himself whether you pose a threat to Rohan.’

‘No,’ Legolas interposed firmly, ‘we will not. We have done no wrong to your people. That the orcs chose to follow us was no fault of ours and we will not be held culpable for their evil. If you try to insist on taking us captive then we will have no choice but to leave by force.’

‘I’ll not be cowed by words,’ the Captain stated angrily. ‘Not even ones said in such a high and mighty manner. You _will_ come to Edoras or you will fight us here and now.’

‘We do not wish to fight anyone,’ Bilbo said with more patience. ‘We simply wish to be on our way.’

‘So you keep saying,’ another of the Rohirrim spoke. Fíli turned his gaze upon the man and immediately disliked the sly glint in his eye. ‘ _I’d_ say that anyone this reluctant to agree to a simple request must have something to hide. We should search them, Captain.’

Oh, that was not good at all! Fíli could not help tensing instinctively and the Captain’s eagle-eyed glance made it clear he had registered the reaction.

‘I think that is a fine idea,’ the Captain replied. ‘Disarm them and search their packs,’ he commanded sharply.

Fíli fell back two steps to place himself between the Rohirrim and the two hobbits. Kíli and Legolas both did the same, though what they were planning to do was anyone’s guess. They didn’t stand a chance against a patrol of Rohirrim, even a party of twelve which had just lost three fighters to orcs.

‘Don’t,’ Fíli heard Frodo cry as the sly-eyed Rohirrim tried to pull him out of the way, seemingly intent on getting to Bilbo. Fíli didn’t have to think too hard to guess why and he promised himself that Sauron’s damned ring was going into Mount Doom no matter what. Fíli saw Legolas moving swiftly around the back of their group, hand grasping one of his daggers with the blade facing up and the pommel ready to deliver a stunning blow to the head. Perhaps with that Man unconscious they would be able to make the Captain see sense.

Frodo could not see Legolas, though, and had no idea help was so close at hand. He struggled mightily against his captor, somehow managing to keep his sword arm free through sheer determination, twisting and ducking until he had his sword pointed at the man’s heart. In the same second, as Fíli watched with horror, the man jerked Frodo forward by his other arm, apparently trying to get both arms around the hobbit to subdue him.

Frodo’s sword sank into his chest all too easily, its razor sharp tip shockingly efficient.

Time seemed to stand still. Frodo’s eyes were wide with disbelief and then with horror. His captor let go of him almost instantly, raising his hand to the sword lodged in his chest.

One of the Rohirrim shouted, ‘No, Aelfric, don’t,’ to no avail. The man, Aelfric, tugged at the blade of the sword until he dislodged it. Almost immediately the blood which had been soaking into his shirt poured out faster and he went deathly pale. Forgetting their enmity for the moment, Legolas rushed forward, pulling off his cloak and pressing it to the wound to try and stop the bleeding. He pressed one hand to the man’s skin and concentrated, but Fíli could see Legolas’s resignation almost immediately.

‘There is nothing I can do,’ the elf told the Rohirric Captain as he removed his hand. ‘I am no true healer. He is bleeding to death too fast for me to stop it.’

By this time Aelfric was gasping, frightened tears sliding down his face as he reached up to grip Legolas’ hand pleadingly. Legolas raised his free hand and rested it upon Aelfric’s forehead and the man’s eyes slid shut. Then, what seemed like only seconds later, he was gone.

Only feet away Frodo let out a wail of horror and began to sob helplessly. Bilbo was already beside him, arms wrapped around his nephew as he rocked him gently back and forth. Bilbo’s face was as horrified as Fíli was sure his own was. Killing orcs they had expected, maybe even other agents of Sauron. To kill deliberately in order to save your own life was something every warrior expected.

To do so accidentally… to watch someone die and know you had never meant it to happen. Fíli didn’t know if he could live with the guilt. He didn’t know how Frodo was going to live with it or what Fíli could do to help.

When the Captain informed them quietly that they would be going to Edoras under arrest they were all too shocked to argue. The only blessing was that the Captain did not bother to have them searched.

******


	21. Truth To Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thengel wants the truth, but truth is never a simple thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who left kudos or a comment. You are all amazing. There was no chapter last week because I owed a reader a one-shot but hopefully I'll be able to post another next week.

Chapter Twenty: Truth To Tell

Sigrid was right. It turned out to be a very long evening. Thanks to forethought and planning from both Bain and Ori they were able to prove their identities to Thengel fairly easily. Sigrid bore with her the seal of the Lords of Dale and Bofur had been given Thorin’s signet ring as a sign of his relationship to the King of Erebor. The latter had been given only on the condition that Bofur was _not_ to use it for anything Thorin would frown upon, including procuring free ale, and was to return it as soon as the quest was over. That had made Sigrid giggle, she would admit. They all knew Bofur far too well.

With Sigrid and Bofur’s connections established no one had worried too much about Alnir, to Sigrid’s relief. Unfortunately that was the only relief she was to find. A far larger problem awaited them.

‘Perhaps, Masters, my Lady, you can solve a mystery for me,’ Thengel said carefully as he considered them intently. ‘I have in my keeping a group of travellers even more unusual than yourselves. Three of them tell me that they are royalty and, like yourselves, seem to have the evidence to support their claims. However they will tell me nothing of why they came to be in my lands and nothing of where it is they are going. That in itself would be cause enough for suspicion and I am extremely unhappy at the thought that fellow monarchs felt no need to tell me that their people would be journeying through Rohan. Far worse, however, is that these supposed scions of other realms have drawn orcs to Rohan and then, when my men tried to take them into custody, murdered one of my Riders in cold blood.’

For a few seconds no one spoke and Sigrid assumed her companions were drawing the same conclusions that she was. Then, suddenly, Bofur all-but exploded.

‘Murdered?’ he said at a volume which would have had him escorted firmly out of her father’s audience room. ‘You can’t be serious! If there was a fight then they were surely defending themselves.’

Thengel’s expression turned to satisfaction far more quickly than Sigrid was comfortable with.

‘So I am correct,’ he stated confidently. ‘You do know them.’

‘We believe that we know them,’ Alnir said hastily, eyes cutting over to Bofur with a warning look. Sigrid devoutly wished that they could have a few moments to speak to one another privately before they went any further, but that was about as likely as Sauron apologising for trying to destroy the world and politely throwing himself into his own volcano.

‘Master Bofur clearly does more than “believe”,’ Thengel responded sharply. ‘He knows exactly who I am speaking of.’

‘We travelled with friends up until a few days ago,’ Sigrid spoke in turn, trying to decide how to go about this without digging them into a deeper hole. ‘Some of them were, indeed, royalty. None of them were cold-blooded murderers, King Thengel. If you claim your captives are then we cannot say for certain if they are our friends.’

‘I do not claim anything,’ Thengel declared, face drawn with anger. ‘The crime was witnessed by an entire patrol of my Riders. Yesterday morning, my Lady, I had to offer my condolences to a wife left widowed and with two young children to support. The culprit offers no explanation of his crime and I cannot offer her the justice that she deserves while he remains silent. If I cannot have my answers from him then I will have them from you!’

‘Love,’ Morwen interjected evenly, before Thengel could become any angrier, ‘no matter what has taken place we have no evidence that those before us have done aught amiss. Interrogating them as if they are criminals themselves is hardly fair.’

Thengel considered her for a moment, then nodded abruptly. When Morwen turned to smile at the three of them Sigrid could not help but smile in return, despite feeling nearly sick with anxiety and the knowledge that, somehow, something had gone horribly wrong.

‘Let us begin this conversation again,’ Thengel said after a short pause. ‘Two days ago one of my patrols came across a group of orcs only a day’s ride from Edoras. The patrol chased the orcs down and killed them, but during the chase it became clear that the orcs were, to their great surprise, searching for a group of dwarves within our lands. My Riders found those dwarves almost immediately and informed them that they and their companions would be brought here to explain why they were being pursued through Rohan by such creatures. The patrol were, in turn, informed that the party would not come to Edoras unless forced. When they did try to force the issue one of the dwarves’ companions murdered one of my Riders.

‘Naturally I wish to know why they are come here and why they resisted such a simple request. However, both the murderer and his companions have proven… uncooperative. I have been told nothing except that they are Princes of Erebor and Mirkwood, travelling with two companions. You can understand why I would treat such a claim with some suspicion, given that they did not say anything of the sort until they had already been arrested.’

In the privacy of her mind Sigrid screamed at Thengel that there was nothing natural about any of this, that his patrol should have minded their own damned business and that none of her friends would murder anyone without provocation as he was implying. She bit her tongue, just in case any of the thoughts slipped out, and frantically tried to decide what to say. Bofur beat her to it.

‘Which one?’ he asked in a tone which bore no resemblance to his usual relaxed demeanour. ‘Which one is accused of murder?’

‘I do not think that you are in any position to be demanding answers,’ Thengel replied in a very abrupt manner. ‘Until I have learned why I suddenly have so many foreign intruders in Rohan then I will keep my silence as they have kept theirs. What is it that you are all hiding?’

Sigrid hadn’t the faintest idea why their friends had not told Thengel of their objective when captured. Clearly they had given some information, it made no sense to withhold the rest. Perhaps they would not tell of the ring. Sigrid could see quite easily why they would hold that back. Why had they not just told Thengel about Saruman and said that they were come to warn him? Or stated that they were travelling to Gondor to speak with Ecthelion? Or even mentioned the army that they were all but certain Sauron was raising in Mordor? There were a thousand different things that they could have said.

Without being able to ask any of her friends, not even the ones beside her, Sigrid realised she would just have to rely on her own instincts and pray she was not wrong. Thengel had not exactly endeared himself to her in their short acquaintance, but his wife seemed kind enough and she was not afraid to offer a gentle reprimand, even in public. That spoke as well of Thengel as it did of her. Added to that, Sigrid had never heard any ill of Rohan’s king and he appeared to be sincere in his sympathy for the dead man’s widow and children.

She would just have to trust him.

‘As they have told you,’ Sigrid began, ‘your prisoners are Prince Fíli, Crown Prince of Erebor; his brother, Prince Kíli; Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm; and two further residents of Erebor, Bilbo Baggins and his nephew Frodo.’

‘Fíli and Kíli are good dwarves,’ Bofur interrupted immediately, before she could continue her explanation. Sigrid resisted the urge to put her head in her hands. Why could he never stay silent when she wished him to? ‘They wouldn’t murder a man in cold blood.’

‘It is not they that are accused,’ Théoden returned. ‘It is the younger of the two holbytlan. Frodo.’

***

‘No,’ Bofur said instinctively, only half aware that he was speaking. ‘No, Frodo is… that’s… no, someone has made a mistake.’

‘A man is dead, Master Bofur,’ Thengel reiterated angrily. ‘That is no _mistake_.’

Bofur could not believe it. _Would_ not believe it. Frodo had trained as a warrior, yes. He had done well at the training. Dwalin had been amusingly smug when he had proved Bilbo’s protestations that “hobbits just weren’t meant for fighting” wrong by making a skilled fighter out of Bilbo’s nephew. There was a difference between being a warrior and being a killer, though. A big difference. Frodo was no killer and he would not have the strength to overpower and kill a full-grown Man with a whole patrol of other Men there to intervene. There had been a mistake, whether Thengel would admit it or not.

‘Father,’ Théoden said quietly from his position at Thengel’s shoulder, looking at Bofur and his companions. What followed was even quieter, but Bofur had a fair amount of experience reading lips (a useful skill in a noisy mine when you had your hands full) and he could make out enough.

_The guards say the holbytlan cried for hours_ , Théoden told his father. _Now he just sits and stares. Mayhap they are right._

‘Oh, my poor lad,’ Bofur breathed out, barely aware that he was speaking aloud. ‘Frodo, lad, what happened?’

Sigrid reached over and took his hand and Bofur looked at her, seeing tears in her eyes. What she had gleaned from his comment he didn’t know, but it was clearly nothing good. He patted the hand he held and tried to smile at her.

‘We’ll work it out,’ he told her, attempting reassurance. ‘We’ll look after him.’

‘I would not be so sure of that, Master Bofur,’ Thengel said then, though he sounded more weary than angry for a moment. ‘As I said before, there is no mistake. I have any number of witnesses to the murder. I can accept, with your corroboration, that they are who they say they are. Certainly your arrival with the same seal as that borne by the two dwarves would be a strange coincidence otherwise. Powerful connections do not excuse murder, however. Rohan’s law demands punishment.’

‘King Thengel, please, we need to see our friends,’ Alnir said earnestly, rising and coming to stand behind Sigrid with a hand on her shoulder, though his eyes did not leave Rohan’s King. ‘We have known Frodo since he was very young. He is _still_ very young. I understand that you have evidence of the crime but to us this is… inconceivable.’

Thengel treated them all to a piercing look, giving every impression of weighing their conviction in order to judge his next move.

‘This is a terrible situation,’ Thengel stated at length. ‘That I think we can all agree on. I will be happy to allow you to see the prisoners, but I cannot allow you to do so before you have answered my questions.’ Bofur swallowed a noise of protest at the words, helped by the increase of Sigrid’s grip on his hand. ‘Allowing you to confer about the story you are going to tell in advance would be irresponsible of me.’

Again, Bofur would have liked to protest but knew better. He tried to put himself in Thengel’s shoes – a man murdered, the killer supposedly in custody along with an unlikely group of companions, more unexpected visitors before him and no explanations of their purpose forthcoming. It would not look good to him either. Not that it made Bofur any less angry at the thought of his friends being treated as murderers, but it did help him rein in the first ten things he wished to say, all of which would likely have had him thrown in the dungeons himself.

Now there was an idea…

‘No,’ Sigrid said firmly, if lowly.

‘You don’t even know what I was thinking,’ Bofur responded.

‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘I do. The answer is no.’

Alnir, still stood behind them, gave them each a quick tap of admonishment. That was when Bofur realised that they had not been quiet enough and that Thengel was growing annoyed once more.

‘Go on then, lass,’ Bofur suggested to Sigrid. ‘Best the explanation comes from you.’

Sigrid was unhappy with the responsibility, he could tell that easily enough, but better from her than from Bofur himself. Despite common belief, he was well aware that his words did not always come out the way he intended them to. Or they weren’t taken as he intended them to be anyway.

‘We have travelled from Lothlórien,’ Sigrid told Thengel and his family. His girl-child, whose name Bofur couldn’t remember, gasped at the information and Bofur chuckled as quietly as he could. He’d forgotten that the kingdoms of Men were a superstitious lot and used Galadriel as a tale to scare young children. ‘Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn sent word to a number of the other kingdoms to ask them to attend a Council. A messenger was sent to Rohan and to Gondor,’ she emphasised before Thengel could try to take issue with being left out, ‘but when no word came in return we reached the conclusion that the messenger had met with an accident.’

‘The subject of this Council?’ Morwen asked curiously, attention fixed on Sigrid.

‘Lady Galadriel had received word that the shadow within Mordor was growing once again. It seems that Sauron is no longer content to hide within his borders. The Council decided that action was needed. In fact, it was decided that a war was inevitable and that it was better for our attack to come first than for Sauron to take us by surprise. Lord Elrond of Rivendell, King Thranduil and King Thorin left for their kingdoms some weeks ago to raise their armies. They were to meet Lord Celeborn at the southern edge of the Woodland Realm as soon as possible.’

‘Yet King Thranduil and King Thorin did not, apparently, require the presence of their heirs when preparing for war,’ Thengel stated doubtfully. ‘That seems more than a little strange, Lady Sigrid.’

‘Ten of us left the Council bound to a different purpose,’ Sigrid said carefully. Remembering how bad his lass was at lying, Bofur felt a twinge of concern. Perhaps he should have tried to tell this tale instead. Lying wasn’t something Bofur had ever had an issue with. Thankfully Sigrid chose to skirt around the truth instead, which she was slightly better at.

‘Saruman the White had not appeared at the Council either. As the same messenger had been dispatched to him as to yourself and Lord Ecthelion, we assumed he had not received the message. Led by Gandalf we travelled to request his aid in the coming battle. Afterwards we were to alert Rohan and Gondor. The three of us,’ she gestured with a brisk circle of her hand, ‘were chosen to come to Rohan. That much has gone to plan.’

‘Not the rest of it?’ Théoden asked, his eyes as rapt as his mother’s. Eyeing the lad carefully, Bofur came to a sudden, unpleasant realisation. Mahal, the last thing they needed was a Prince with an infatuation to contend with.

‘No,’ Sigrid said with a wry shake of her head. ‘The fact that our companions are in your dungeons is proof that the rest is not going to plan at all.’

‘Enlighten us, Lady Sigrid,’ Thengel commanded. Sigrid’s spine stiffened, though subtly enough that only Bofur and Alnir would be able to tell. She wasn’t all that fond of the King of Rohan, Bofur concluded, and less so of being given orders by him.

‘We were ten,’ Sigrid continued in a deliberately even tone. ‘A week ago that number had risen to fourteen. Some of those who were to remain in Lothlórien or return to the north decided that they would accompany us instead. One of those was Frodo. To say that Bilbo was displeased by his nephew’s decision would be a gross understatement.’

‘Exactly how old is Master Frodo?’ Morwen questioned worriedly. A clever lady, Bofur surmised, who was putting puzzle pieces together quickly and coming to the correct conclusion.

‘He is thirty-three,’ Bofur answered baldly, deliberately drawing the Queen’s attention and making his tone as pointed as he could. ‘Hobbits reach their majority at thirty-three. I believe Men do so around one and twenty.’

‘He is considered a man then,’ Thengel asserted immediately.

‘He is considered a hobbit,’ Bofur retorted, irritated that Thengel was being deliberately obtuse, ‘or sometimes a dwarf as he’s been with us that long. The point is that Frodo is only just an adult.’

‘The law of Rohan does not recognise “only just”, Master Bofur,’ Thengel declared.

‘Well perhaps it should!’ Bofur argued back.

‘Either way,’ Alnir inserted hastily, ‘I’m sure you can understand why Bilbo was unhappy with him. If Frodo’s ears were not ringing by the time the scolding had finished then I would be much surprised.’

‘Four of our companions were to travel to Gondor to speak to Lord Ecthelion,’ Sigrid continued. ‘Their journey, like ours, became even more urgent after we discovered that Saruman’s absence was neither mistake nor mischance.’

‘Indeed,’ Thengel noted in a non-committal tone of voice. ‘Saruman is a good friend to Rohan.’

That was a clear warning to speak carefully, Bofur knew. He considered ignoring it, then imagined Bilbo’s reaction if he found out that Bofur was deliberately provoking his nephew’s captor and changed his mind.

‘No longer, I fear, my lord,’ Sigrid said sadly. ‘We were travelling through Fangorn Forest on our way south. We found orcs hacking away at the trees on the edge of the forest and were forced to fight our way through. Those orcs answered to Saruman. No doubt those who chased our friends were also his. He will not have been happy that we escaped him.’

‘That is preposterous,’ Thengel snarled. ‘If you think I will allow you to sully Saruman’s name to try and squirm your way out of trouble then you had best think again.’

‘Now you know how we felt,’ Bofur muttered under his breath. Sigrid’s boot made firm contact with his ankle and he subsided. Luckily Alnir’s words had drowned his out.

‘When was the last time that you saw Saruman, King Thengel?’

‘He visited to congratulate us on the birth of our daughter,’ Morwen responded in her husband’s stead. ‘That would have been nearly ten years ago. We have never had anything but friendship from Isengard, Master Alnir.’

‘Then I am sorry to bear ill news, Lady Morwen,’ Alnir replied with sincerity, ‘but he is no longer a friend to any. As Sigrid says, orcs attacked us as we left Fangorn and I saw Saruman there commanding them, as did my friends. Gandalf may well have died saving us from him. We hope not, although it is a sad day when I must hope that someone has been taken captive by an enemy.’

‘Suppose we do believe your wild imaginings,’ Thengel proposed dismissively. ‘Suppose Saruman attacked your group and is consorting with orcs. Still none of what you have told us explains where my prisoners were going, nor why they have been so reticent themselves. It certainly does not excuse the crime committed. You will need to do a great deal better than this!’

Bofur entertained a brief, happy vision of punching Thengel of Rohan until he was a bloody mess. He could do it easily enough. Mining was not a profession for the weak of body.

He was distracted from his vision by a quick flick of Iglishmêk from beside him. _Your turn_ , Sigrid informed Alnir. That was probably for the best. They could not tell Thengel the truth here. Especially not when the others had so determinedly kept their secrets.

‘Legolas and the others were given a different task,’ Alnir explained to Thengel, sounding for all the world as if he was telling a truth given to him by the Valar. ‘The Council who met in Lothlórien decided that they would need more than hearsay and rumour if they were to face Sauron in battle. Gandalf has travelled the length of Middle Earth several times over, so he was to lead our final party. Their role was simple enough. They were to gather as much information as they could about Mordor and Sauron’s forces, then meet up with the army to pass it on.’

Thengel said nothing. The air appeared to have been taken out of his bellows a bit by Alnir’s lie, which was nice and logical if not entirely without holes. Bilbo and the others could have told Thengel this easily enough themselves.

Thengel clearly agreed.

‘Why not tell me so?’ he asked the room in general, still unconvinced.

‘That I cannot answer,’ Alnir replied. ‘King Thengel, we have told you all we know. Let us talk to our friends. If nothing else we can convince them to speak with you honestly. If you would give your soldier’s family answers then we can try to get them for you.’

‘I should have received them immediately,’ Thengel bit out. Sigrid let out a noise of impatience.

‘Your Majesty, do you wish to resolve this affair?’ she asked sharply. ‘For if you do then we are your best chance.’

‘It is too late to do anything tonight,’ Morwen announced after meeting her husband’s eyes. ‘We will have rooms prepared for you and continue our discussions tomorrow.’

‘There will be guards stationed outside the doors of those rooms,’ Thengel appended, glaring particularly at Sigrid though Bofur and Alnir were also included. ‘I would not suggest trying to leave.’

A tense silence fell. Morwen had summoned a servant and was told that rooms had already been prepared for their visitors ‘just in case’. Bofur was thankful when they were led from the room and escorted to their chambers. He could have done without the armed guards, but at least he was no longer in a room with Thengel-King.

Bofur had hoped to speak with Sigrid and Alnir but the guards made it clear that they were to enter their separate rooms immediately and that they would not be allowed out until morning. The baths that were drawn for them and the dinner which was served were small sops to their pride.

No matter which was you looked at it, Bofur and his companions were now also prisoners of Rohan.

******

 


	22. Make or Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't always know yourself, or others, as well as you think you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. That one was hard work and all praise and thanks goes to ISeeFire for help and her patience. Let me know what you think :)

Chapter Twenty-One: Make or Break

It was possible, Fíli reflected as he stared at the bars of their cell, that he might have miscalculated.

If by miscalculated you meant that he had completely and utterly cocked this whole thing up.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. They were being taken prisoner by people they didn’t know and at least one of those people had already fallen under the ring’s influence. Or so Fíli had concluded anyway. It was possible that Thengel ordered his men to accost and arrest all travellers found on his lands, even if they had committed no crime and had done nothing more damning than being chased by orcs.

Possible, but not likely. The dead man had made straight for Bilbo when he moved, had only taken hold of Frodo at all because the lad put himself between his uncle and the Rider. That was no coincidence, not with three far more dangerous targets who had been ignored completely.

The cursed ring was influencing the Men, Fíli was sure of it.

Knowing that, Fíli had decided it was best to make Thengel’s Riders aware of exactly who they had taken captive. There would be trouble, no doubt. Intentionally or not Frodo had killed a man and that would require punishment under any law. Fíli had hoped that Thengel would accept that the whole incident had been an accident and would allow Fíli to offer as much reparation for the killing as could be made. With that done, they would have been able to move on. It was a callous way of looking at things, perhaps, but accidental deaths were hardly unheard of in Middle Earth and they had a quest which needed completing.

He should have foreseen that keeping their quest secret would cause huge trouble. One of them should have anyway. They had all reacted in a sort of panic to begin with. A man was dead, Frodo was coming apart at the seams, the Rohirrim seemed angrier by the second and all Fíli could think was ‘they can’t be allowed to find out about the ring’.

Kíli had agreed, as far as he could agree when they could not talk to each other. Bilbo, though distracted trying to console Frodo, had given Fíli a warning look whilst moving his hand to the place where the ring rested beneath his shirt; a clear enough indication that Bilbo was worried about the same thing they were.

So they had said nothing of their quest when Thengel questioned them. Fíli had assumed Legolas’ agreement from his silence. They had simply given their names and titles and tried to explain that Frodo hadn’t meant to kill the man, had done so by accident. Neither of which satisfied Thengel at all.

Which Fíli should have expected, damnit! Would Uncle have been content with that when a murder had been committed? Would any king? Fíli couldn’t understand what he had been thinking.

He was beginning to wonder if he had been thinking at all.

Now here they were – stuck in a cell in Edoras with no way out and the distinct possibility that one of them would be hung for murder.

Sauron’s demise had never seemed further away.

‘Bilbo has to leave,’ Legolas said quietly, breaking the silence for the first time in hours. Frodo had fallen into a fitful sleep some time back and was laid with his head in Bilbo’s lap. Whatever Fíli’s current view of the Rohirrim, he would be thankful that they had let Bilbo keep Frodo with him. Fíli, Kíli and Legolas were in separate cells, but they were within earshot of one another. The guards kept their post at the door and left them to themselves otherwise. If they could hear Legolas they gave no sign of it.

‘I cannot,’ Bilbo replied immediately. ‘I must stay with Frodo.’

‘Bilbo, you must,’ Legolas responded with equal conviction. ‘The ring has to get to Mordor. A delay is one thing but with things as they stand we might never be released. The army will have marched all that way and attacked the full might of Sauron’s forces for nothing.’

‘He’s right, Bilbo,’ Kíli chipped in. ‘We can’t afford to fail and if you stay here we will have.’

‘So we should leave and allow Frodo to suffer through this alone instead?’ Bilbo questioned sharply.

‘Nobody said he would be alone,’ Legolas countered. ‘One of us would stay with him, you know we would never dream of leaving him entirely.’

‘It would need to be you,’ Fíli told Legolas, just about managing to meet his friend’s eyes by peering out of the cell at a strange angle. ‘We swore to stay with Bilbo and we will.’

‘I have known you a number of years now, Fíli,’ Legolas teased gently, although it was half-hearted. ‘Dwarven stubbornness is no longer a mystery to me.’

‘Dwarven and elven thought is a mystery to me, however,’ Bilbo stated crossly. ‘How exactly were you planning to get us out of here? From where I am sitting we are sadly short of magic and I cannot see what else will get us out. Thengel’s guards are more than capable of subtracting two from five and coming up with three missing prisoners!’

‘Since when has the seemingly impossible ever stopped us before?’ Fíli asked him. ‘We will think of something.’

‘The last time I let you do the thinking I ended with my nephew trailing behind us across Rohan,’ Bilbo snapped, ‘and we can all see where _that_ led.’

Fíli felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach by one of Rohan’s horses. So that was where Bilbo was placing the blame. Perfect. Now they were in agreement, at least.

‘Bilbo!’ Kíli shouted, then quieted immediately when one of the guards whipped round to stare in their direction. What his brother did then Fíli didn’t know, but after some seconds the guard turned his back once more. ‘It was an accident,’ Kíli continued lowly, tone angry. ‘We have all made mistakes and blaming us for what happened won’t undo anything.’

‘If we had sent him back to Lothlórien…’ Bilbo began. Before Fíli could respond Kíli spoke again.

‘Then Frodo might well have run into trouble elsewhere; possibly the sort of trouble that got _him_ killed instead of someone else.’ Fíli winced. That was not going to go over well.

‘Is that supposed to make things better?’ Bilbo hissed. ‘Never mind that someone died as long as it wasn’t one of our family?’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ Kíli answered. Fíli could picture his expression just from the tone of his voice. Kíli would be grinding his teeth as Uncle did when he was annoyed and probably tugging on the section of hair that he always played with when he was uncomfortable and trying not to fidget too much. ‘Someone is dead and Fíli and Legolas and I all hold some guilt for it, for allowing Frodo to come. As does Frodo, for pulling his sword on an unarmed man and Dwalin for teaching him to wield the thing in the first place. Not to mention the man himself for trying to seize you for no reason and sending Frodo into a panic. There, the blame has been assigned. Do you feel better now?’

Bilbo was silent. Fíli slumped against the wall, temple pressed to the cool stone which formed the foundation of Thengel’s hall in an attempt to soothe the headache that was tightening around his head like a crushed helm. They had caused such a mess between them and he had no idea what to do. Bilbo was right. This was their fault and, for all their insistence that Bilbo leave, Fíli had no idea how they were supposed to help him escape. Mahal but he wished Uncle was here.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Frodo said suddenly in a small voice, clearly awoken by their arguing. He sounded so young, like the tiny faunt they had first met, who had stared at Kíli’s bow in wonder as he asked if that was _really_ the bow Kíli had used to blind the dragon. Fíli wished they could go back to a time when Frodo had still been that innocent, useless though he knew the wish was.

‘We know you didn’t, akhûnith,’ Kíli reassured sincerely. ‘It’s just… sometimes what we meant to do doesn’t change what we’ve done.’

Fíli couldn’t help the slight twitch of a smile at that. That was such a Kíli way of phrasing it.

‘Will I be hung?’ Frodo asked quietly. Fíli felt sick at the very thought.

‘We do not know, Frodo,’ Legolas replied equally softly. ‘That will be Thengel’s decision.’

Legolas turned his head to catch Fíli’s eyes, somehow managing to make the move seem graceful even as he contorted himself much as Fíli had earlier.

‘We need to tell Thengel the truth,’ Legolas told Fíli firmly. ‘I held my tongue because I did not wish the Men to know about the ring any more than you did, but…’

Legolas broke off midway through the sentence, twisting again but this time peering past Fíli towards the guards at the entrance. Fíli did the same and saw the guard on the right come upright suddenly, pulling off his helm and pressing it against his chest as he bowed. Fíli couldn’t hear what he said but clearly this wasn’t one of their meals being brought to them.

***

‘My lord,’ the guard said anxiously as Thengel approached. Alnir idly wondered what the man had done that made him so nervous of his King. He began to conjure up a scene in his head, imagining the guard drinking, dicing and wenching the night away, then hastily shoving the woman in question (plus the cups and dice, of course) into a nearby room just before Thengel rounded the corner.

Normally creating such stories about everyone he met kept Alnir diverted no matter what else was going on. This time he couldn’t summon the effort to be creative. He was too busy feeling anxious himself.

Thengel had summoned them early that morning, a guard pounding on the door so hard that Alnir had felt his heart seize as he rolled towards his sword and promptly fell out bed. The guard in question had, at least, been polite enough not to enquire why Alnir was on the floor when he opened the door.

‘The King summons you,’ Alnir had been told, before the guard was gone and the door shut once more.

‘The King can summon all he likes,’ Alnir had muttered irritably to himself, even as he had made himself fit for company. The words were empty defiance and he knew it. While Thengel held members of his family captive Alnir would not anger him. He could only daydream about it instead.

As it happened, Alnir’s irritation had been unwarranted. He had arrived at the same room they had been shown to the day before, full of righteous indignation at having his presence demanded in such a way, only to be greeted by Thengel’s family, seated and ready to break their fast.

‘Master Alnir, good morrow,’ Morwen had said with an easy smile. ‘We are glad you could join us.’

Ah, Alnir had thought, so they had been summoned to breakfast. That was… not quite what he had expected. Although it had been no bad thing. Breakfast was rarely a bad thing.

Not long after that Sigrid had appeared, then Bofur a few minutes later. Soon all except Thengel had been present and tucking in to the food on offer. Which had been very pleasant, really. Bofur, for all his irritation the night before, had never been able to resist making children laugh and had put on a fine performance for Thengel’s youngest few.

Thengel’s eldest son had listened to Morwen and Sigrid speak of the training which Rohan’s noblewomen sometimes received, normally in times of war or if they were particularly enthusiastic. Morwen had seemed fascinated by the tales of elven and dwarven training and Théoden had given Sigrid increasingly awed glances. Alnir, remembering his own hero-worship for Legolas and Fíli in years gone by, had chuckled to himself. Another wonderful opportunity to tease Sigrid mercilessly.

When Thengel had appeared he had greeted them all fairly cordially, even if he was not exactly friendly. It had looked to Alnir as if Thengel had spent the night thinking over the circumstances they were in and was mulling over a decision. He’d watched them carefully and said very little as he ate.

Once they had finished, Thengel had said farewell to the children and sent them off to whatever lessons and tasks filled their days. All except Théoden, who he’d told to stay behind. Morwen had risen of her own accord, kissed his cheek and assured them she would see them again at dinner.

Then they had been alone.

‘In a moment we will go to see your companions,’ Thengel had told them. ‘I hope, very much hope, that all is as you say. After we parted last night I spoke again to some of my guards. I had asked them to keep watch and try to judge the behaviour of our prisoners. I cannot, of course, base my judgement entirely on their thoughts but I have been reassured by their report. Your young friend, I am told, seems honestly distraught by what has happened; the others mostly concerned for his well-being. If you would help them, convince them to speak honestly with me. That is all that I am asking for.’

Alnir had not been sure what to make of that. It sounded far more promising than their discussion the night before, but it was somewhat vague.

‘We will do what we can to resolve the matter,’ Sigrid had answered, also deliberately vague, and that had been that.

That said they had followed Thengel through the Golden Hall, Théoden at his father’s side, down a series of shallow steps down towards the dungeons. Sigrid had been playing with the leather of her belt where her dagger would normally sit. Bofur had trailed his fingers over the walls of the passage they walked down, face drawn with concentration. Alnir himself had done his best to show no emotion at all, unwilling to give the guards who escorted Thengel the satisfaction of seeing his nerves.

Now, after what seemed an eternity but in reality was probably less than a few minutes, they were finally at their destination.

‘I will see the prisoners,’ Thengel informed the two guards on the door briskly.

‘Of course, my lord,’ the less nervous of the two responded, swiftly moving aside to let Thengel through. Thengel entered and the others followed him, down a few more small steps and then, finally, into the room where their friends were being held. Some gnawing anxiety which had been churning inside Alnir settled as he saw the five of them there, all alive and mostly well.

Fíli was pressed against the bars, looking far from his usual confident self. Legolas had already risen to his feet, composed and seemingly blank, unless you looked at the way his hands were gripping the bars of his cell. Bilbo stood as well, apparently determined to shield Frodo from Thengel’s eyes, as if that would save him from Rohan’s justice.

The attempt to keep Frodo hidden was rendered useless when Frodo himself suddenly pushed past his uncle, pressed himself up against the bars like Fíli and thrust one arm out of the cell.

‘Uncle Bofur,’ he cried, straining forward. Bofur moved swiftly with no regard for Théoden’s dignity, nearly tipping the poor boy over on the way. Only a quick grab from Sigrid kept Rohan’s Prince on his feet.

‘Here now, lad,’ Bofur said affectionately, catching Frodo’s hand in his own and standing only inches away from the cell, ‘what have you got yourself into?’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Frodo said desperately, tears beginning to run down his face. ‘I didn’t, Uncle Bofur.’

‘Hush now,’ Bofur responded, ‘I knew that.’ Using his other hand Bofur reached up and brushed the tears away as best he could.

‘You are Frodo, yes?’ Thengel asked, drawing their attention back to him. Frodo looked at him fearfully, giving a jerky little nod and biting his lip, seemingly to hold back further tears. His eyes were red and puffy. Alnir doubted that these were the first he had shed.

‘Your friends seemed surprised to find that you were in my dungeons,’ Thengel said after a moment, more gently than Alnir had expected. ‘They seemed surprised, in fact, to learn that you were in Edoras at all. I have never wished for anything but the truth. All you need do is tell it.’

‘We have told you the truth,’ Bilbo said to Théoden, moving forward to stand next to Frodo. ‘You have not believed it.’

‘Master Baggins, I know not how King Thorin dispenses justice, but it is not the practice in Rohan to release one who has killed a man without hearing the story from his own lips. Your Frodo is young, I know, but I am told he is a man in his own right. I must hear the story from him.’

‘He has been distraught,’ Bilbo argued. ‘He was in no position to talk to you!’

‘As I could see, which is why I left you here, together, until I could speak to him,’ Thengel responded. Alnir was more than slightly confused. That was not what Thengel had said last night. Not even close.

‘Frodo, tell me what happened,’ Bofur commanded, sympathetic but firm. ‘Exactly what happened.’

‘I shouldn’t have drawn my sword,’ Frodo whispered, his voice catching part way through. ‘I… I thought he was going to hurt Uncle Bilbo and I wanted to make him back off. I thought I’d just get it in between us and then he’d have to step back and someone could stop him. Only he wouldn’t let me go and I was so close to him and then I got the sword up and he pulled on me and it went through his chest…’ Frodo let out a sob and Bilbo moved instantly to wrap his arms around his nephew. In that moment Alnir would have done anything if it meant never hearing Frodo cry like that again.

Silence for a moment, then Legolas spoke calmly.

‘Are you satisfied now, Thengel-King?’

Alnir looked back at Thengel, who was still watching Frodo, and caught him glancing at Théoden out of the corner of his eye. Then Thengel sighed sadly.

‘I do not think that satisfied is the right word, Your Highness,’ Thengel answered. ‘There is no satisfaction to be found in such a situation. Do I believe that Frodo is a hardened murderer? No, I do not. Do I understand why the whole incident came to that point at all? Again, no. Why did you not simply come with the patrol to Edoras? Why all of this secrecy? When such secrecy brings so much trouble with it then I can do nothing but assume the worst. Surely you understand that, given your own positions.’

Legolas did not immediately respond and Alnir saw Fíli begin to open his mouth, then close it again.

‘I don’t know why you haven’t spoken of it,’ Alnir told Legolas, meaning the words for the others as well, though he could not look at all of them at once. ‘I can guess, but I think the time for silence is past.’

‘Do it,’ Kíli said, looking at Legolas. ‘You were right. It’s time to cut the knot we’ve made for ourselves.’

Legolas glanced at Fíli, who nodded shortly. Then at Bilbo, who gave his own nod of agreement.

‘It is not the way of my family to lie,’ Legolas spoke once they were all in agreement. Alnir knew he meant the odd little family they had formed for themselves over the years, not simply Legolas’ own. ‘Nothing we have said has been other than the truth. It has, however, not been the whole truth. Unfortunately that is not something we can announce to the world. If you are to have the truth, Thengel-King, we must be sure it is for your ears alone.’

Alnir saw Thengel’s guards tense and wondered at their concern. Most of the Fellowship were currently behind bars and the remaining members were unarmed. What, exactly, did they think was going to happen to their King in this company? Even if harm did come to Thengel, there was no possibility that the Fellowship would be able to escape.

Thengel apparently agreed.

‘Raði, you may leave us.’

It was not a decision that made the guard captain happy, clearly, but it was one he had no choice but to obey. Moments later they were alone with Thengel. Thengel and his son, actually. The lad had moved back several steps, out of Thengel’s sight, but he had not left. Alnir said nothing. If Théoden had managed to avoid his father’s notice then he wouldn’t be the one to give the game away.

‘Are your guards always so distrustful, Thengel?’ Bofur asked tartly.

‘They would be little use to me if they were not,’ Thengel answered with similar sharpness. ‘Better they guard me closely when they do not need to, than that they fail to protect me when I need them.’

Which was a fair point, Alnir thought, if not one he liked having applied to himself and his companions.

‘Very well,’ Thengel said when Bofur did not respond. ‘Explain, if you please.’

‘We travel to Mordor through your lands because we have been entrusted with a task as important as there has ever been,’ Legolas related. ‘Bilbo carries with him Sauron’s most treasured possession, an item which he will destroy Middle Earth to find. We hope to destroy it instead. It must be thrown into Mount Doom and so we must get to Mordor, one way or another.’

‘If that is, in fact, the case,’ Thengel said cautiously, unconvinced, ‘why insist upon secrecy? Surely you would have been better to tell me and trust that I would help you on your way.’

‘Trust, as you have proven, Your Majesty, is not something which is easily given,’ Fíli pointed out, looking Thengel straight in the eye. ‘We have had few dealings with your country, we know little of you and had no way of knowing how you would react. Our first encounter with your people did not give us much hope. Nor did the fact that we were all imprisoned for a crime that only one of us had committed.’

‘It is hardly a crime to ask strangers who will not tell you their business to explain themselves,’ Thengel stated. ‘Or to doubt the character of those who travel with a murderer.’

‘Nor is it a crime to be the victim of an orc attack,’ Legolas responded. ‘That seemed to be our only crime, in the eyes of your men. Considering that orcs attack just about every being they come across, including each other, we could not see why your men thought we needed to come to Edoras at all.’

‘I was told that the dwarves in your party were being hunted,’ Thengel said, though to Alnir’s eyes he lacked a certain amount of conviction. ‘That is not simply an orc attack.’

‘No,’ Kíli agreed, ‘but that just means that they like us even less than they like everyone else. Given that they are orcs, I would’ve thought that was a good thing.’

Thengel gave Kíli a strange look for several moments, then began to laugh ruefully.

‘A good argument,’ he conceded. ‘Even so, you could just have gone with my men when they asked and avoided this whole problem.’

‘Sauron’s magic is as powerful as it is evil,’ Fíli joined in. ‘It has brought men low before and turned the minds of those who thought themselves immune to such deceit. Frankly, we did not wish to trust that it would not affect your people the same way it has others in the past. In the end we fell victim to the problem anyway. We are almost certain that the magic in the ring was the reason that Aelfric suddenly decided to seize Bilbo in the middle of our discussion with your Riders. I won’t claim that the discussion was friendly, but it was calm enough before that.’

‘He wanted to search Uncle Bilbo,’ Frodo added. ‘Not any of the rest of us. He made straight for Uncle Bilbo.’

‘It is a hard claim to believe,’ Thengel told them. When Fíli looked likely to argue he raised his hand. ‘I am not saying that I do not believe you, Prince Fíli, simply that it is difficult to do so. Magic is not something my people have much experience of. It has little to do with us and we are content to have little to do with it. Saruman has been our ally but I cannot remember him using his power while visiting.’

Thengel paused again, apparently considering an idea for a moment before continuing.

‘I would see this item you carry, Master Baggins,’ he declared. ‘If it has, in fact, been the cause of so much trouble in my realm then I would have some proof of its existence.’

Bilbo did not act immediately. He glanced at Legolas, clearly concerned.

‘Show him,’ Legolas suggested, not entirely sanguine but giving Bilbo an encouraging smile. Bilbo paused for a long, still moment before he reached up and pulled the ring from underneath his shirt.

Alnir lost track of what was happening after that. Suddenly he could hear a buzzing noise in his ears. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the sound, but stopped as he found that he could not take his eyes off the ring. The gold shone so beautifully in the light and he began to step forward, moving towards Bilbo. Bilbo’s lips were moving but Alnir couldn’t hear him speak. The buzzing had become a song more wonderful than any he had ever heard, more perfect than the songs he had heard sung in Galadriel’s kingdom. If he could just touch the ring… it would only need to be for a moment…

Two things brought him out of his haze.

The first was a shout of pain from Sigrid, sharp and high, cutting straight through him.

The second was something striking him right between the eyes, then hitting the floor and rattling there.

Shocked back to himself, Alnir spun around and reached for Thengel just as Théoden did the same.

‘Father, stop,’ the lad cried, hauling back with all his strength. Thengel was locked in a battle of strength with Sigrid, who had apparently moved to block his advance on Bilbo. Except that Thengel had a dagger and Sigrid did not. It was taking all of her will, and Théoden’s, to force it away from her throat, but once Alnir added his own force the King was unable to resist them. The knife moved away from Sigrid and she slipped out of Thengel’s grasp in the same moment that Bofur charged forward and brought Thengel crashing to the floor.

The guards who had been waiting outside rushed in, swords drawn, and Alnir thought for one horrible second that they were to have a bloodbath. Then Théoden shouted again.

‘Don’t,’ the Prince told his father’s men. ‘Everything is well. We had a disagreement, no one is in danger.’

The guards were sceptical and Alnir could not blame them. Blood was still running down Sigrid’s neck and she was white and shaking. Alnir could feel himself shaking as well, the shock of what he had nearly done hitting him. Thengel lay on the floor, Bofur holding him there with all his strength.

Really, it was a miracle that the guards were not killing them all without question.

‘Théoden is right,’ Thengel stated. Watching him warily Bofur released him, moving to stand before Sigrid with a thin blade in his hand, which he seemed to have conjured from thin air. Thengel rose to his feet and composed himself once more, smoothing his clothes as he did so.

‘There is no trouble here,’ Thengel continued telling his baffled guard. ‘A small misunderstanding, nothing more. I commend you for your caution though. I will see to it you are rewarded for such care later. Now you may leave.’

Poor Raði was clearly lost but, with no other option available to him, he obeyed his King and left the room once more.

‘I’ll have that back, thank you,’ Kíli suddenly announced imperiously, drawing all eyes in the room. When no one moved, Kíli gave a sigh of impatience.

‘ _My_ ring,’ he proclaimed, waving a hand towards the item in question, on the floor a few feet from Alnir. Remembering the sudden smack to his forehead, Alnir caught on.

‘You threw it at me,’ he told his friend with a certain amount of disbelief. Even as he said so he bent to pick Kíli’s signet ring up and returned it to his friend.

‘Well someone had to do something,’ Kíli remarked. ‘You were looking at the ring the way Dwalin looks at a barrel of ale. Who knows what you were going to do.’

‘I think we can all guess,’ Bofur added. ‘Which only proves we made the right decision. The pair of you,’ he gestured at Alnir and Sigrid, ‘are staying as far away from that _thing_ as possible.’

‘You’ll get no argument from either of us,’ Sigrid answered him. She had gone to Legolas, who was healing the cut on her neck as much as he could. It was fairly deep and probably painful, but she was in no real danger from it, thank the Valar.

‘That was the most disturbing incident I have ever been involved in,’ Thengel stated then. ‘I have no idea what happened, but….’

‘As we mentioned,’ Fíli said to him wryly, ‘the ring has a tendency to cause moments of madness.’

‘Madness indeed,’ Thengel agreed. ‘I can now more than understand your reluctance to explain your business. We do still have the matter of Aelfric’s death to resolve unfortunately.’

‘Erebor will make whatever recompense is required,’ Fíli said immediately. ‘I am aware that you might otherwise be expected to punish Frodo with death, but given the circumstances and our positions, wergild would suffice would it not?’

Thengel eyed Fíli, apparently measuring him carefully.

‘You know the customs of my people but did not offer wergild before,’ he commented.

‘Once we had spoken to you I was under the impression such an offer would not be accepted,’ Fíli replied.

‘Perhaps not,’ Thengel acknowledged. ‘I will need to speak to Aelfric’s widow. While I can accept any offer on her behalf, she has suffered a great loss and should have a say in the decision. The negotiations surrounding wergild are not brief and I would be expected to hold you here until the exchange has been made, even in such a case as this.’

‘Surely not all of them,’ Sigrid suggested. ‘Frodo is,’ she paused, wary of hurting Frodo by speaking the blunt truth. Instead, Frodo spoke it for her.

‘I was the one who murdered Aelfric,’ he said plainly. ‘The others should not need to stay.’

Thengel’s face creased with worry and Alnir felt himself tense. That did not look good to him.

‘I phrased that badly,’ Thengel corrected. ‘Master Frodo, I am afraid, will have to remain in here. The rumour of what happened to Aelfric has spread. My people know that Frodo was involved. They will expect him to remain imprisoned until all negotiations are complete and I will need to recall Aelfric’s shieldbrothers to corroborate your version of events. The rest of you are free to remain here as guests. Where you spend the days is, of course, entirely up to you.’

‘Recall?’ Fíli asked disbelievingly. ‘Were they sent out again so soon?’

‘I had little choice but to send them out again,’ Thengel responded with annoyance, clearly offended by Fíli’s tone. ‘There were orcs in Rohan where we have never known them to be before and reports of Dunlending attacks for the first time in several years. I need what Riders I have protecting my people.’

‘I did not mean to cause offence,’ Fíli said apologetically. ‘Our practice is to keep a patrol off duty when they have suffered such a loss, but I had not realised you had problems elsewhere.’

‘If the Dunlending attacks are unexpected it may be that Saruman…’ Alnir began to say. They had come to Rohan for a reason, after all, even if things had spun out of control quickly.

‘Saruman is another matter,’ Thengel said in a voice that was clearly meant to quell any further discussion. ‘I understand that much has happened that was beyond anyone’s control, my lords, my lady, but this is as far as I am willing to bend. It will be no more than a few days before my Riders arrive. Then we will put the matter of Aelfric’s death to rest. After that we will discuss Saruman once more. I will send the guards in to unlock the cells.’

So saying, he rose and left the room. Théoden, remaining behind, seemed torn.

‘It really will only be a few days,’ Théoden reassured them. ‘Then only as long as it takes to get the wergild here before you can all leave.’

Then he hurried away. A moment later the guard entered, letting all but Frodo free. When he left Fíli sighed heavily.

‘If Frodo must remain here until the wergild is paid,’ he informed the rest of them, ‘then we will need to borrow the money from Lothlórien. Otherwise we will be here far too long. Uncle will be overjoyed.’

‘You were supposed to be leaving with Uncle Bilbo,’ Frodo protested. ‘You need to go.’

‘No, little cousin, we will be fine,’ Kíli assured him. ‘We needed to escape when we thought we could not leave. Now that Thengel understands our quest we can ask to go if time seems to be running short. We appear to have stumbled onto good luck – we have a comfortable place to stay while we wait for the others to get ahead of us.’

Sigrid slumped down next to Alnir and leant her head on his shoulder.

‘I hope being guests means we get to have baths,’ she told him quietly. ‘I have blood drying where blood should never be.’

‘I did not need to know that,’ Alnir replied, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to rid himself of the image. ‘Besides, at least you didn’t get the seal of Durin stamped on your forehead.’

For a moment they didn’t say anything, watching the others plotting away between them. Then Alnir sighed.

‘Come on then,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s go and take advantage of our newfound freedom. A bath awaits you.’

******


	23. Stunned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can only run so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments. As always they make me very happy. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I had quite a lot of fun writing it!

Chapter Twenty-Two: Stunned

Merry hadn’t realised, when they’d decided to flee the Nazgûl, exactly how long your body could keep going when you were terrified for your life. He felt as if he had been running for days, though he knew it was not really that long. The Nazgûl had been far enough away when they started out to give them a good lead, but after hours of being chased Merry knew they had lost some ground.

They had also gained more pursuers. The Nazgûl had been letting out their eerie calls at intervals earlier in the day and slowly but surely their fellows had joined them. All eight now, all but the Witch-King Elladan and Strider had faced earlier, were on their heels.

The worst part was knowing that he and Pippin were the weak links. Strider and Elladan ran quickly and tirelessly, seemingly unaffected by the fatigue that made Merry’s legs feel heavy or the breathlessness that had his throat as dry as grass in the summer heat.

Merry was failing and he knew it; and when the Nazgûl caught up with them, as they would, it would be because he had not been fast enough.

Sméagol had surprised Merry in the last few hours, though he should not have done. They had already seen how swift Sméagol could be when he needed to but it now became clear that he had the stamina to match. He stayed with Merry and Pippin all the way, never getting too far ahead and more often than not running behind them so that he could keep track of their pursuers.

Merry hoped that when the time came Sméagol had the sense to run ahead and leave Merry and Pippin behind.

‘Elladan, they cannot keep going like this!’ Strider called to his foster-brother worriedly. He and Elladan had fallen back to join Merry, Pippin and Sméagol once more as the night drew in, and now they slowed again so that they were no longer running at top speed.

‘I know,’ Elladan responded, then lifted Pippin into his arms. Pip was red in the face and gasping and once he was settled on Elladan’s back he sagged as if he had fainted.

‘Pippin!’ Merry heard himself cry, though it came out more as a croak than a shout. Strider took Merry up on his back as Elladan had Pippin and Merry immediately began trying to calm his breathing.

‘They will expect us to slow now,’ Elladan said, apparently speaking to Sméagol, ‘and they will feel more confident in the dark. Estel and I will go as fast as we can and try to find some shelter to hide us so that the young ones can rest a while. Can you keep going?’

‘Sméagol not need rest,’ was his answer. ‘Sméagol run as long as he must.’

‘You are very brave,’ Aragorn told him, breathing harder than normal but otherwise sounding much the same as usual. ‘You all are. Hopefully we will lose them soon. The plains seem to be coming to an end.’

Merry heard little after that. Much like Pippin he had slipped into a half-asleep state where everything seemed very far away and he had not the strength to force himself awake again.

***

‘Can we lose them?’ Aragorn asked Elladan once he was certain the young ones were sleeping. Or as close to sleep as they could get when they were being jolted up and down whenever Aragorn or Elladan hit a dip in the ground.

‘I am not sure,’ Elladan answered, sounding far more defeated than he had when speaking to Sméagol earlier. ‘They seem to be indefatigable and we are not. Eventually even I will need to rest, little brother.’

‘I know.’

How he wished he did not. Life had been far more comforting when he had been young enough to believe his brothers invincible.

‘Once it gets fully dark we will have to stop,’ Elladan decided. ‘We will wake Merry and Pippin to keep watch and you and I and Sméagol will sleep a little. We will all eat and drink more than a few mouthfuls and then we will begin again.’

‘We could lose our lead,’ Aragorn replied, for the sake of argument as much as anything. If they continued slowing as the hours went by they would lose their lead anyway.

‘Then we will have to face them,’ Elladan said grimly. ‘They say no man can kill the Witch-King. No one ever said we could not kill his minions. If I die taking a Nazgûl or two along with me then I will consider my life well spent.’

‘Hobbits will fight,’ Sméagol added from Aragorn’s other side. ‘Hobbits brave. Silly, but brave.’

‘That they are,’ Elladan agreed, giving Sméagol the closest approximation of a smile he could manage. ‘I wish they did not need to be, but if Eru was ever interested in our wishes he seems to have changed his mind lately.’

***

‘I do believe I am being maligned,’ Eru commented to his child as they tried to watch several different groups at once. Perhaps the father of the universe found these things easier than Mahal did. He was beginning to feel oddly dizzy.

‘You can hardly blame them,’ Mahal answered fairly. ‘They are not having the easiest of months.’

‘I do not understand where my children acquired this idea that life was meant to be easy,’ was Eru’s reply. ‘I certainly never suggested it should be. Why should their lot be less tiring than mine?’

‘You do not get tired,’ Mahal felt obliged to point out. In all honesty Mahal did not either, not physically. Mentally was another thing entirely. Especially when his chosen were giving him palpitations every other day and he could do nothing about it.

‘That is beside the point,’ Eru said firmly. ‘I cannot simply give them whatever they wish. They should know that, especially the Eldar. He has had many years to learn it.’

‘He fears to die,’ Mahal said softly. ‘He fears that he has brought the little ones to their deaths and his brother as well. That feeling even we can understand.’

‘So we can,’ Eru acknowledged fairly. Then, more sharply, ‘As I remember, the last time you felt so you reacted by rewriting the course of history. I am suddenly very glad most of my children do not have such powers at their disposal.’

‘You make one unusual decision and suddenly you are hearing about it for eternity,’ Mahal murmured irritably. Sometimes Eru was worse than Yavanna. Which should not have been possible considering how often he heard the ‘your people _cut down trees_ ’ argument when she was irritated with him.

A few moments and another palpitation later (this one brought about by Sigrid’s close encounter with Thengel of Rohan’s blade and yet more of the ring’s nasty little games) Mahal watched the group huddle down in small copse of trees as full night fell.

The biggest problem with being one of the Valar, he decided, was that you had no one to pray to when you were afraid.

***

The dark had never been so comforting. Pippin curled up with his back to Merry and Sméagol at his front and tried desperately not to breathe. He knew, in his mind, that the Nazgûl tracked more by some dark magic than they did by sight, but he still felt cloaked by the darkness.

‘Shh,’ Merry whispered. It was only then that Pippin realised he had let out a small whimper. ‘It’s alright, Pip. It will all be alright.’

It wouldn’t, of course. Pippin knew that there was no good way out of the situation they were in. He shoved the thoughts aside anyway and clung to Merry’s reassurance. It would sort itself out. Merry would think of something, or Elladan would do something brilliant, or someone would suddenly appear to save them.

They weren’t going to die. Not tonight.

He repeated the phrase in his mind, over and over. They weren’t going to die. They weren’t.

Over an hour passed like that, quiet and frightening and somehow hopeful as well. There had to be some way out. There always was in the great tales.

Just as Pippin was thinking that it must be time to wake Strider and Elladan, Sméagol moved his arm out from between them and rested it gently over Pippin’s mouth. Pippin swallowed another instinctive whimper of fear. What was happening?

‘Shh,’ Sméagol murmured gently. ‘Quiet and still now, like Farmer Maggot’s dogs are coming.’

Quiet and still. Pippin could do that. That was what hobbits did.

It turned out to be even easier than he expected. He was too frightened to make a sound. Too frightened to move a muscle when he realised that one of the Nazgûl had moved ahead of the rest. One had entered the trees.

They would never know why.

Had this one sensed something the others had not? Had they failed to believe whatever it had told them? Could they even speak to each other in any detail, warped as they were? To Pippin the Nazgûl seemed more like wolves than anything, drawn to each other by their strange cries and hunting together as much by instinct as anything else. Able to sense fear.

Perhaps they should be thankful for that. The fear the Nazgûl could sense had driven them to follow Pippin and his friends this far, away from Bilbo and Frodo and the ring.

Unfortunately, it had also led the Nazgûl to their hiding spot. Even as silent as Pippin and his friends had been, it had not been enough. The thing was here, paused, searching the area around them ever so carefully. It knew. It knew its prey was near and it had only to look a little bit more closely.

That thought in his mind, Pippin took hold of his courage fully.

He was here for a very specific reason. So were his friends. They needed to get to Gondor to raise their army, yes. That was important. In the end, though, everything they did, every soldier they summoned, was simply another way to give Bilbo the distraction he needed.

Every one of these things that they killed was one less that Bilbo would have to face in the end.

Pippin opened his eyes and let them adjust to the dark. Looking back over his shoulder, he caught Merry’s gaze and held it. Merry nodded sombrely. He knew what they had to do.

Pippin’s hand moved to his sword. Merry’s did the same.

Sméagol looked at them, his eyes as old as the land they stood on and utterly calm. He reached down and pulled a small dagger from Pippin’s boot.

Then they moved.

***

There were no words to describe the terror Elladan felt when the hobbits suddenly sprang to life just as the Nazgûl moved toward the nest they had made for themselves. He had woken only seconds before to the knowledge that something was very, very wrong. He had been about to wake Estel, stretching his senses to try and determine where the threat was, when suddenly the clearing had exploded into life.

There was no sound, or at least there did not seem to be. No shouts of defiance, no cries of anger. One moment everything was still and then it was not.

The young ones almost exploded out of the brush as they threw themselves at the Nazgûl. Elladan, horrified to realise that the Nazgûl had come so close without him realising, could not react quickly enough. The Nazgûl itself, crouched slightly to snuffle along the ground like a boar hunting truffles, had unwittingly made itself a perfect target for its small attackers.

First, Sméagol leapt into the air in the way only he ever managed, twisting mid-leap to land on the Nazgûl’s back. The knife he had in his hand plunged into the top of the Nazgûl’s hood, where the creature’s scalp would have been had it been a natural being, penetrating only a little before it was halted. The absolute silence as the blade struck only made it clear how unnatural the Nazgûl truly was.

Elladan sprang to his feet only a moment before Estel, both drawing their swords and rushing forward to help. The Nazgûl reached back over his head to seize Sméagol and threw him across the clearing. Elladan hissed involuntarily in sympathy, but he need not have bothered. Sméagol simply twisted once more and, rather than crashing into the tree he had been headed for, landed on all fours. Within moments he had launched himself back towards the fight.

Merry and Pippin had used the Nazgûl’s brief distraction to their advantage. Rather than attacking from above as Sméagol had, instead they ducked low beneath its chest and stabbed upward simultaneously. Though the cloak gave the impression of being almost empty, clearly they had caught on something. The Nazgûl tried to turn and dragged both hobbits with him, Merry and Pippin tugging frantically to try and free their blades.

Then Estel was there.

Elladan was not one to boost another’s pride. He and Elrohir had considered it more important to deflate any fledgling arrogance their younger charges might have developed. Not that Estel had shown a great deal, but all young men had their moments. They had had theirs, certainly. Glorfindel had crushed them as gleefully as he crushed unwary orcs. In the part of his mind that was not entirely focused on survival, Elladan admitted that Estel had perhaps deserved a little pride. He moved swiftly, struck hard and appeared entirely fearless.

The Nazgûl did not know what had hit it.

The pommel of Estel’s sword slammed into the area where its face should have been and it produced a racking wheeze which Elladan assumed would have been a cry of pain had the Nazgûl had the ability to utter one. It reared back, trying to get away from the blow and Merry and Pippin’s swords slid free of its cloak. Before the creature could regain its composure, Estel turned and stabbed backwards with Anduril, shoving his sword into the Nazgûl’s torso, then yanked the blade out, swivelling and kicking out at the area he had just stabbed. The Nazgûl could not decide which way to turn, it seemed, doubling over as the force of the kick stunned it.

Before it could recover Elladan had joined the fight. Raising his sword high, as Sméagol had done moments ago, he slammed his own sword point towards the curved back that was left exposed. The hit was not true, unfortunately. The Nazgûl staggered to the side and Elladan’s blow was only glancing, not causing the Nazgûl any great pain.

The creature reached out and grabbed at Estel’s legs, pulling forward and tipping him onto his back. It suddenly remembered that it had a blade of its own, pulling the sword back and aiming it at Estel’s head. He parried and Elladan gave his own kick, trying to unbalance the thing and give Estel the time to rise. That worked, to his relief, and then the Fellowship were all on their feet once more.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Merry had moved around the Nazgûl unobserved. As it began to stalk forward, trying to close with Estel once more, Merry struck out at its side and slashed a hole in its cloak. Elladan assumed that he had caught what passed for the creature’s body at the same time, for it paused in its advance and one gauntleted hand moved to the gash.

‘Elladan, how do we kill it?’ Pippin called then, drawing the Nazgûl’s attention unintentionally. As it moved towards him he displayed an impressive speed, jumping over a fallen log and dashing out of range, behind a tree and out of sight.

As for his question… well, Elladan wished he had the answer. None of the Nazgûl had ever been killed, sadly, so he had no precedent to go on.

They feared fire, that much had been clear from his previous encounter with them, but they had no fire to hand. Nor did Elladan imagine for a minute that they were likely to get a reprieve in which to light one. Just because there was only one Nazgûl here now did not mean that the others were far away.

Neither Sméagol nor Estel waited for enlightenment, thankfully. Sméagol had climbed a tree near to the fight and now he dropped down on top of the Nazgûl once more. As it lashed out with the wicked spikes on its knuckles, aiming to dislodge him, Sméagol jumped the other way and landed on its sword arm. He kicked twice at the Nazgûl’s wrist, catching himself on another sharp area of metal and yelping with pain.

Sméagol had weakened the Nazgûl’s grip on its sword enough that Elladan was able to move in and grab its arm, bringing the hilt of his sword down once, then again and again. It punched at him with its other hand and Sméagol jumped back out of the way just as Pippin reappeared seemingly from nowhere and caught the punch with his sword. With a final pommel-strike Elladan managed to disarm the Nazgûl entirely, knocking the sword out of range with one foot.

Merry, thinking quickly, dived for it. Thankfully he avoided the blade itself, taking it by the hilt and dragging it backwards into the brush where it was well out of the Nazgûl’s reach. The creature swayed first one way, then the other, trying to see a way out, but Estel and Elladan moved to match it, blocking it in and ensuring that it could not push past them.

Now it was the Nazgûl’s turn to retreat backwards, blocking Elladan’s next swing with its gauntlet, then Estel’s with its other hand. Had Elladan not been so disgusted by the very thought of its existence, he might have wondered at the warrior it had been before it was perverted by Sauron’s evil. Even disarmed it parried blow after blow, slowly retreating a step at a time. Doubtless it meant to escape and summon its brethren to aid it.

It never had the chance.

Pippin ducked low one more time, throwing himself bodily at the creature’s feet and legs just as it stepped backward. Surprised and off balance the Nazgûl stumbled, its move to block Elladan’s sword aborted as it tried to catch itself. His blade struck true, through the front and out the back of its hood.

Elladan was unable to hold back the cry that left his lips. Curse it all, that _burned_ more than any fire. What in the name of all that was good was inside this thing? He withdrew his blade sharply, thankful when the burning subsided. Even as he did so the Nazgûl seemed to cave inwards, all the substance disappearing until the gloves, boots and cloak were all that remained.

Elladan stared at the empty spot where the creature had been some moments before. That was… a dead Nazgûl. They had actually slain it.

‘Well,’ Pippin said after a second, ‘I suppose that answers the question of how we kill one.’

Merry began to laugh in a somewhat hysterical manner and Estel crouched down before him, taking his hands and shushing him gently.

‘Easy now, Merry,’ he murmured. ‘It’s done. It’s over.’

‘We’re not dead,’ Merry responded. ‘I thought we’d be dead.’

‘I confess I had the same thought myself,’ Elladan was forced to admit. ‘We are alive, however. Perhaps I owe the Valar an apology after all.’

‘No sorry too soon,’ Sméagol breathed quietly as he drew near them. ‘More nightmares coming.’

******

 


	24. Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Rohan the Fellowship await the return of the dead man's shield-brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get you at least one more chapter before Christmas, so have an early Christmas present! Thank you to anyone who has left comments recently. It's so good to see that people are still reading, even if real life won't let me do as much writing.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Undone

Originally the other members of the Fellowship had planned to remain with Frodo as much as possible. They had not wanted to turn down Thengel’s hospitality entirely, for fear of offending him. Sigrid was also willing to admit that the lure of being clean had been too much for her and she had given in to the call of a bath. However, they had all reappeared in the dungeons once they had made an appearance upstairs.

Frodo had promptly told them to go elsewhere.

‘I’m fine,’ he argued. When none of them seemed convinced, he shook his head. ‘Alright, I’m scared and I wish all of this was over and we could go home,’ he amended, ‘but I’m not in any danger right this second. I’d rather you were all out there doing something.’

‘It’s not right for us to be out there as if nothing’s wrong when you can’t be,’ Alnir disagreed obstinately. Sigrid felt the same. Being guests while Frodo was a prisoner seemed wrong.

‘Uncle Balin would tell you to go and make sure they know us,’ Frodo insisted. ‘The more they know us, the friendlier and less mysterious we seem, the less likely they are to think I’m a heartless murderer.’

They all paused at that, considering.

‘We will go up again for a while,’ Legolas decided for them in the end. ‘Just to get some fresh air and maybe talk to some of those in Meduseld. Then we will come and see how you are.’

‘And then you’ll go and sleep in proper beds,’ Frodo said. There was brief pause and then a few nods and noises of agreement. Frodo seemed satisfied, then looked at Bilbo.

‘No,’ Bilbo said firmly. When Frodo began to open his mouth, Bilbo repeated, ‘ _No_.’

Frodo sighed, but gave in. He was doing so well, Sigrid thought, but despite his arguments he did not really wish to be alone. Bilbo knew that. He would take care of Frodo.

***

The freedom to remain as guests of Rohan, Sigrid decided as she followed Frodo’s orders, was not quite the boon it seemed. In theory they were at liberty to move around Edoras as they chose, with full access to their belongings and whatever comforts Thengel’s halls could provide.

That was in theory. As Sigrid wandered about with Bofur, looking for something to occupy them, she received so many glares and heard so many comments whispered behind hands that she would almost have preferred imprisonment.

It brought back memories she preferred not to think on. Days when the line of Girion was almost outcast, haunted by the rumours spread by the Master’s minions and the eyes of his spies following them everywhere they went.

Sigrid’s mother had taught them to forgive wrongs done to them. Her father had taught them to remember how fickle the love of their people could be. Even so, it had been years since she had been in this position. People might sneer at the shield-maiden of Dale, but they had long-since learnt to do so behind closed doors. In Erebor and in the Woodland Realm she was simply Sigrid, daughter of Bard, pupil and friend of the Princes. She had grown used to fond tolerance or even affection in the lands of the East. The South, by comparison, was apparently a land of censure.

‘… heard she’s their whore…’ a man’s voice muttered behind her, full of crass amusement. Sigrid straightened her spine and refused to look back. If the words were spoken in Westron then in all likelihood they were meant to draw a reaction. She would not give him one. Bofur twitched as if he was going to go back, then stopped as he caught her eye.

Instead of moving toward the speaker, Bofur chose a different tack.

‘I wonder how many women have left his bed crying with laughter at his attempts,’ Bofur said clearly in Khuzdul, tone drawling in a manner that made the insult obvious even if it could not be understood. The hall they were walking through was suddenly hushed. ‘That’s if he’s ever managed to get anyone in it at all, of course.’

Sigrid was torn between laughter and a fierce gratitude. He should not have said it, of course. There was a reason Bofur had chosen a language barely ever spoken outside of dwarven lands to deliver his insult and Sigrid could only imagine how much trouble they would be in if someone had understood. She was grateful anyway. To be defended by your friends was always cheering.

‘Lady Sigrid, Master Bofur,’ exclaimed a voice whose tone had also been chosen so that it would carry, ‘I had wondered where you were. I hoped you would join me outside.’

The lady Morwen, called Steelsheen, was not a woman to be ignored. She walked towards them as tall and proud as any statue of heroes gone by, commanding the entire room through her presence. Her people bowed and curtsied instinctively as she passed, the hush having become complete silence.

She was also a shrewd Queen. She knew what had been happening before her arrival, Sigrid was sure of it, and was making her opinion on the matter very clear.

‘We would be happy to,’ Sigrid answered with a small smile. ‘I feel as if I have been inside far longer than is probably the case.’

‘I can imagine,’ Morwen replied, the light tone countered by cool eyes settling on a number of figures in the room. More than one of them squirmed at the scrutiny. ‘Come, I would hear more of our neighbours to the north. The elves of Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm are all but legends in Rohan, it has been so long since they passed this way.’

‘If you wished to hear about the Woodland Realm then Legolas would be the one to ask,’ Bofur suggested as they moved off together. ‘He’s oddly attached to all that wood and dirt he calls a kingdom.’

‘Bofur!’ Sigrid sighed despairingly. ‘One day you will say such a thing and end up in Thranduil’s dungeons. The last time he heard you speak so he announced that a few decades of silence would be beneficial for you _and_ for everyone else, and you know Thorin would not argue with him.’

‘I’m not worried, lass,’ Bofur responded with a bright smile. ‘You’d come and rescue me.’

‘That’s what you think,’ Sigrid muttered, smiling at Morwen’s polite attempts to hide laughter behind her hand.

‘Your peoples are very close,’ the Queen of Rohan stated politely, curiosity apparent.

‘The people of Dale and the Woodland Realm helped us to reclaim our Mountain,’ Bofur informed her. ‘This one and her siblings have been traipsing in and out ever since, along with Alnir and his brothers. After a while they grew on us.’

Sigrid just shook her head.

‘My father has much respect for our dwarven neighbours,’ she told Morwen calmly, ‘as does the Master of Lake-town. After what had come to pass under earlier kings, Father, Thorin, Varr and Thranduil decided it was best to strengthen the links between their kingdoms and so their doors are ever open to visitors. We have all taken full advantage, including my training in the Woodland Realm, which we have spoken of.’

‘Yes, that is part of why I hoped you would accompany me,’ Morwen said happily. ‘Prince Legolas, Prince Fíli and Prince Kíli had agreed to spar with some of our Riders, to see how their training differs from our own. They suggested it would be interesting for you and Master Alnir to join them, given that you were taught the methods of so many different styles.’

‘I hope I will not disappoint,’ Sigrid said laughingly. ‘It is less that I know several styles and more that I have used whatever they could teach me that seemed like it would work. It was opportunism as much as anything.’

‘Dwarven fighting doesn’t suit them quite so well,’ Bofur commented to Morwen. ‘We rely on power and being able to take our hits until our opponents tire themselves out. The young ones are quicker, they do more of that spinning the elves love so much.’

‘So says the dwarf whose brother fights by whipping round in circles so fast you expect him to create a hole in the ground,’ Sigrid teased him. Bofur shrugged.

‘No idea where he got that trick from,’ he stated. ‘Wasn’t from Bifur, even though he taught us both. Works for him though.’

As they moved down the steps of Meduseld, the noise of a small crowd laughing and joking could be heard. To Sigrid, who had just been thinking on how unfriendly the Rohirrim were being to her party because of all the rumours racing around the city, it was a strange sound.

Morwen had clearly seen something of Sigrid’s thoughts on her face.

‘You are not seeing my people at their best, Lady Sigrid,’ she said softly. ‘Or rather, you have not yet seen the best of my people. Those you encountered inside were the ones waiting around to get a glimpse at the source of the rumours. Those less enamoured of gossip are elsewhere, simply getting on with their lives. Or, in this case, watching an entirely different kind of entertainment.’

Now Sigrid could see the reason for this comment. A large crowd of Rohirrim were gathered before them, all watching intently but without the censure of those Sigrid had encountered in the course of the morning.

Fíli and Legolas faced each other in a practice ring, both fully armed but only lightly armoured. Legolas was grinning widely, a far cry from his expression in true battle, and Fíli returned whatever taunts were being thrown with his own smile, flipping his daggers idly from one hand to another. Sigrid, Morwen and Bofur drew closer and Sigrid heard Kíli shout to his brother.

‘If that wasn’t Legolas, your pretty little toys would be halfway to Erebor by now,’ their dark-haired friend called mockingly. ‘Keep your grip on your weapon or you might as well give it to your enemy!’

One of Dwalin’s favourite phrases, it prompted Fíli to stick his tongue out at his brother like a child. Legolas took the opportunity eagerly. He was using his own daggers, matching Fíli rather than wielding the sword he usually bore in battle. He brought one whistling towards Fíli’s neck, clearly intending to catch his friend by surprise and not seeming to pull his blow at all. Morwen let out a gasp, hand rising to clutch at her chest.

Sigrid could have told her that she needn’t worry. For all his age and wisdom, Legolas still hadn’t quite figured out all of Fíli’s tricks. Sigrid, having received most of her early training from him, knew them a little better.

He had loved that dagger-flipping ploy. It worked wonderfully to convince people that Fíli wasn’t taking the situation seriously, that he was barely paying attention at all. Every weapons tutor Sigrid had ever encountered would have chided him for bad form, for exposing himself to an enemy’s attacks or to the loss of his blades.

Except that he wasn’t actually exposed at all.

Even as he’d turned to Kíli, Fíli had taken a proper grip on his daggers, ensuring he had them fully settled. He had pulled one foot forward, resting his weight on the balls of his feet and bending his knees slightly. When Legolas struck out, he simply dropped onto one knee out of the way of the blow, then pushed himself back to his feet and struck out himself.

It wouldn’t win him the fight, of course. Legolas was the best warrior they had with them and they all knew it.

It was just nice to make him work harder for it occasionally.

After that the fight sped up so quickly it was hard to keep track. Fíli tried to crowd Legolas against the edges of the practise area as he much as he could, but trying to block their elven friend off was virtually impossible. As soon as he felt himself trapped he’d find some sort of purchase (usually Fíli’s shoulder or arm) and flip himself around so that he was behind Fíli and in the centre of the ring once more.

The fight lasted some minutes, Fíli striking out and being blocked, then blocking Legolas in his turn. The oohs and ahhs coming from the Rohirrim gave Sigrid a new appreciation of how the scene must look, how fast the two of them were when they were anticipating one another’s every move.

A quick flick when Fíli caught one of Legolas’ daggers against his own had Legolas down to one blade and jumping backwards to reclaim the other. Fíli managed to trip him, only to have Legolas roll into a crouch with Fíli’s boot knife in his hand. Fíli cursed, the sort of language he probably wouldn’t have used if he’d known the Queen was watching, moved a fraction too slowly in his surprise and found himself with Legolas’ blade at his throat.

‘Yield?’ Legolas asked, still grinning like a lunatic.

‘Yield,’ Fíli sighed, disheartened. ‘One day…’ he threatened.

Legolas, Sigrid and all of their companions began to laugh.

‘One day you won’t win!’ they chorused, each in their best impression of the dwarven Prince.

‘Oh, curse you all,’ was Fíli’s good-natured reply. ‘Why don’t we set up an archery contest? Then you can watch someone else be utterly defeated instead.’

‘You are getting better,’ Legolas informed him, with an attempt at gravity that wasn’t particularly successful. Fíli grumbled under his breath.

‘I’ll leave you all to it, I think,’ Bofur said, though his words were mostly for Morwen and Sigrid. ‘I need to go and check on Bilbo and our lad.’

‘Oh,’ Morwen said suddenly, causing Bofur to pause in his exit. Her voice dropping a little, Morwen produced something wrapped in a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak.

‘Here, give Frodo these. Maybe they will make him feel a little better.’

Sigrid smiled to herself. It was exactly the sort of thing Princess Dís would have done, though she would have included more insults regarding Bofur’s mental prowess.

***

It was to be a public hearing, Bilbo had learned from Thengel when he had come to see them four days after his initial visit. Bilbo had remained in the dungeons in that time, despite invitations to leave. While Frodo was imprisoned, he would be the same. It was also, conveniently, the sort of place most people did not visit and so kept the ring further away from others. It was hard to tell whether distance had anything to do with the ring’s power, but it was the best they could do in the circumstances.

Now, with the Riders returned, Frodo was to lay out his story before Thengel and his court and would hear whether Aelfric’s comrades would support his version of events. Bilbo prayed that they would, praying to Mahal as had become his habit since he had arrived in Erebor, and stayed as close to his nephew as he could. No doubt Frodo would find that stifling at some point, but he was shaken enough at the moment that he did not like it when Bilbo was too far away.

The room was crowded, full of Rohirrim eager to hear what was to be said. Bilbo had always hated these sorts of trials in Erebor. When possible Thorin heard cases in private, but he knew that sometimes people needed to see justice being dispensed. It made Bilbo uneasy, but he could see the reasoning behind it.

As Bilbo and Frodo walked forwards, guards on either side, Bilbo became aware of a figure sat on a chair just at the foot of the steps leading to Thengel’s throne. Not much taller than many dwarves, the occupant was a young woman dressed in a plain black dress and with a black veil covering her hair.

Aelfric’s widow.

The guards guided Frodo to one side of the dais, remaining on either side and looking entirely ridiculous looming over the top of Frodo. One of them was so tall that Frodo barely reached his waist. Directly across the room were the rest of the Fellowship, all attired as best they could be and pointedly gathered together in a show of unity.

At that point Thengel rose and all in the room went silent.

‘Master Frodo Baggins stands accused…’ Thengel began, only to be interrupted by a flurry of movement and whispering at the back of the hall. Bilbo turned but was barely able to see above the Men standing before him.

‘Let us through,’ a high-pitched voice shouted. It was followed almost immediately by a deeper voice which somehow also sounded shrill.

‘Move aside,’ the man demanded querulously. ‘They have a right to see their father’s murderer.’

Bilbo hissed in sudden understanding. He had no idea who the adults involved were, but someone had clearly decided to bring Aelfric’s children to the court. Immediately Aelfric’s widow was on her feet.

‘Father, we agreed that you were to keep the children at home,’ she said sharply. The figures had now emerged from the crowd, an older couple, stooped a little with age. They had brought with them two children, barely of toddling age and clearly confused and upset. The youngest caught sight of her mother and pulled away from her grandmother, running to be picked up.

‘Master Dufan, if their mother requested that the children remain at home then that is where they should be,’ Thengel stated sternly, not looking at all amused at the interruption.

‘Our son was murdered,’ Dufan protested. ‘Who has more right to be here than his children?’

‘His children are too young to understand what is happening,’ Morwen said, eyes snapping with anger. ‘You have accomplished nothing except to upset them.’ Crossing to stand next to Aelfric’s widow, Morwen began to stroke the hair of the young lass she held, humming softly under her breath. The little one, who had at first been sobbing, then sniffling as she was comforted by her mother, settled until all that could be heard was the occasional hiccup.

Her brother, older but not by much, now also began to cry. His grandfather tried to hush him and only caused the poor lad to cry harder. Bilbo itched to intervene, remembering all the nights that Frodo had cried after his parents’ deaths, but knew that he was far better off staying out of things.

‘Father, Mother,’ the young widow said, moving forward to collect her eldest as well, ‘if you wish so much to be here then I cannot stop you. I do not think your anger healthy, but it is yours. You will not bring our children into this, though. It is not what their father would have wanted.’

The older woman looked as if she was ready to snap, her husband only an instant behind her, when Thengel intervened again.

‘Mistress Etha, my daughter will be happy to take your young ones elsewhere until we are done,’ he informed her solemnly. Bilbo was startled but impressed at their speed. None of Thengel’s daughters had been in the room moments ago.

‘My thanks, Your Majesty,’ Etha replied. She spoke quietly to her son for a minute or so, clearly soothing him so that he would go with the Princess, then handed over her half-asleep daughter. Olwyn moved quickly to guide them out of the room.

‘If we are ready to begin?’ Thengel uttered, barely waiting for an answer. ‘Good. Master Baggins is here to answer the charge that some days hence, when encountering a patrol from Edoras, he murdered Aelfric, son of Dufan, with deliberate intent. Master Baggins, what say you to the charge?’

‘It was an accident,’ Frodo answered, voice easily audible and only trembling a very little.

Angry muttering began about the room and Bilbo, who had been keeping an eye on Aelfric’s parents, saw them begin to sputter furiously.

‘Quiet,’ Thengel said without raising his voice. Almost immediately the muttering ceased. ‘Master Baggins you would state that you did _not_ , in fact, mean to murder Aelfric.’

Thengel was clever, Bilbo would give him that. He gave no hint of his own feelings on the matter, even though he had earlier agreed that he believed the Fellowship. The crowd gathered would believe him as sceptical as they seemed to be.

‘I didn’t,’ Frodo insisted, no tremble present at all now. ‘I wanted him to leave my uncle alone. I drew my sword because I wanted to try and make him let me go. I never meant to hurt him.’

For several minutes after that Thengel questioned Frodo on every aspect of what had happened, whilst deliberately avoiding any reference to the ring. As Thorin would have, he tried to trip Frodo up, to find some hole in his story. There was none, of course. Frodo was telling them nothing but the truth.

Then Thengel decided to move matters on.

‘Captain,’ he said briskly, turning to the man who had led the patrol, ‘you and your men were Aelfric’s shield-brothers. Can you agree with Master Baggins’ story?’

The Captain did not speak for some seconds and Bilbo felt his stomach churn. He was prouder than ever of Frodo, who gave no sign of how terrible he must be feeling. Frodo was as stoic as any dwarf of Erebor in the face of this crowd.

‘I can, my lord,’ the Captain answered at length. ‘My men and I discussed the events a number of times while we were away. The more we talked, the more we realised that our initial impressions were… unlikely. At the time I, well, I think I thought that Master Baggins’ distress was false, an attempt at pretence. I do not remember why now. He was clearly distraught and regretful. Rather than trying to escape, he and his companions stayed and the elf, Prince Legolas, I mean,’ the man stuttered to a stop, then paused for a moment to regain his composure. He took a deep breath, then recommenced, his words more even again.

‘Prince Legolas tried to help Aelfric immediately,’ the Captain told Thengel. ‘Didn’t even pause. When he could not heal the wounds he eased Aelfric’s passing. None of them offered any further resistance when I told them they must come with us and Master Baggins looked like a lot of the young recruits after their first real battle. My lord, I don’t believe they meant to do any harm at all. I certainly don’t think Master Baggins is a killer. I am ashamed I ever led you to believe such a thing,’ the Captain said, visibly bracing himself as he met Thengel’s eyes clearly. ‘I would understand if you took my command from me for causing so much trouble.’

So it was the Captain who had made Thengel so suspicious then, Bilbo mused. Or had contributed to the suspicion anyway.

‘You had lost one of your men, Captain,’ Thengel said forgivingly. ‘It is the sort of thing that can make it hard for a man to think clearly. I place no blame upon you.’

Of course he did not. Having been affected by the ring himself, Thengel could hardly blame the poor man for having been influenced. The Captain, having no understanding of what had happened to him, looked endlessly relieved.

‘Mistress Etha,’ Thengel continued, ‘Prince Fíli has offered the payment of wergild to your family on behalf of Master Baggins, who I am told stands as part of Erebor’s royal family. While I would be honoured to negotiate a settlement on your behalf, I will not accept it without your agreement. Are you content with the reparation offered?’

Then Master Dufan broke in once more.

‘Wergild!’ he cried out. ‘They would offer gold in exchange for my son’s life and you would counsel that Etha accept it? Where is the justice? _How does gold undo a murder_?’

‘It does not,’ Fíli said quietly, meeting Master Dufan’s eyes before Thengel could speak.

‘It cannot,’ Kíli concluded for him, equally grave. ‘Nothing brings the dead back to life. Nothing undoes what has been done. What would you prefer?’

‘Justice!’ Dufan shouted. ‘A life for a life, is that not the law of Rohan?’

‘No,’ Théoden countered steadily, after looking for his father’s permission, ‘it is not. The law of Rohan allows for wergild for exactly this situation, Master Dufan. So that no more blood need be spilt over an unintended tragedy.’

‘Father, killing this boy won’t return Aelfric to us,’ Etha said then. She had risen to her feet once more and somehow her dignity captivated the room. She looked from Bilbo to Frodo and back, then blinked slowly before continuing. ‘Stealing someone else’s family from them will not give my children back their father, nor you your son. The wergild would help us to give them a good life.’

‘And the murderer gets to leave without having suffered any punishment at all,’ Dufan argued. Bilbo wanted to be angry with him, but the man’s heartbreak was clear. Bilbo knew that anger. It had struck him when Frodo had been imprisoned; when Bilbo had thought he would lose his nephew for good.

‘He has suffered,’ Etha told her law-father gently. ‘I have no doubt of that. He will go out into the world and he will make amends for what happened as best he can,’ she continued, eyes on Frodo, waiting for his response.

‘I will,’ Frodo said fervently. ‘I swear it.’

‘Then I am content,’ she concluded. ‘Your Majesty, please do as you see fit.’

Thengel nodded and Etha curtsied to him and to Morwen before moving to go and collect her children. On the way she took her law-mother’s hand and spoke quietly to her. The older woman, with tears running down her cheeks, nodded and caught her husband’s hand in her own. Together they left the room.

Bilbo breathed a sigh that was not quite relief, but as close as he could get. This woeful part of their tale was over, at least. Perhaps now they, perhaps Frodo, could begin to move forward.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ISeeFire advised that Fili should have been shirtless at the beginning of this chapter. Feel free to imagine him so if you wish (or any of the others for that matter :D).


	25. Uncertain Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sudden silence is always unnerving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the tradition of hobbits and my wonderful beta, ISeeFire - have a birthday present! I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think :D

Chapter Twenty-Four: Uncertain Times

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing. Not a damn thing. No response to the raven I sent. No word sent to Bard, or to Eric. No rumours coming in from the road and certainly not a _single word_ from my Mahal-damned, stupid brother or either of my sons! If he has placed them in danger again I am going to geld him!’

Nearly vibrating with frustration, Dís, Princess of Erebor, kicked a table gifted to her by Bard some years before. Balin winced in preparation for disaster but, thankfully, the craftsmanship of Dale held up to the abuse.

‘What is going on?’ Balin said to himself for the hundredth time in the last few weeks. He expected no response. If Dís had any more idea than he did they would not be having this conversation.

‘I do not know!’ Dís responded anyway, though Balin knew better than to take the shouted statement as anger at him. Dís had spent so much of her life waiting for news, almost always bad news, that she took the entire situation as a personal insult.

‘Whatever it is, I doubt it’s good,’ Nori stated baldly as he appeared through one of the secret passages around the royal quarters. Neither Dís nor Balin so much as flinched, though Dís did roll her eyes slightly. They were well-used to Nori’s aversion to using the obvious entrance.

‘When is it?’ Dís asked the world in general. A moment or two later the main door to her quarters opened and the rest of Thorin’s Company (or those remaining in Erebor, in any case) entered. Dori took one look at his brother, sighed in resignation and flicked Nori’s ear.

‘Oi!’ Nori objected. Dori showed no remorse.

‘The rest of the Mountain is one thing,’ Dori scolded, ‘but these are the Princess’ private quarters. Show a little respect, Nori.’

‘It is fine,’ Dís assured Dori. ‘As long as he does not appear at an… inopportune moment then I will allow it.’

‘Would I do such a thing?’ Nori asked innocently. In Dwalin’s absence no one cared to give the obvious answer. Dís’ mind was already back to its original line of thought.

‘Thorin and the boys went to visit Lothlórien weeks ago,’ she said to herself, laying the facts out once more though she had been over them a thousand times. ‘They were to stay only a few weeks, but clearly that did not happen for we have had no sign of him. Only a few days after they left for Lothlórien Elladan appears asking for Bilbo, finds that he is not here and insists on riding out almost immediately, taking that scapegrace miner with him.’

Several members of the party bit down on laughter at that point. Bombur merely smiled.

‘Then suddenly Bard receives a message requesting his presence _with all speed_ , sends Sigrid, Bain and Alnir off to find out what is going on, and promptly loses them as thoroughly as we’ve lost our lot. The raven I sent asking for news has never returned and _no one can tell me what is happening_!’

Dís turned on another table with vengeance in her eyes. Óin pointedly removed it from her reach. Suddenly all the fight seemed to go out of her and she dropped her head into her hands. Balin moved to her side and patted her on the shoulder.

‘I know, lass,’ he said gently. ‘We are all worried.’ Dís looked up at him imploringly.

‘What do we do, Balin?’

‘Do you want the logical response, or the instinctive one?’ Balin asked in turn.

‘Logic crumbles to ash before the men of the Line of Durin,’ Dís said with wry sadness. ‘Instinct seems like our best option.’

Balin nodded and paused very briefly, then turned to Glóin and Gimli and gave his orders.

‘Prepare the army. I want every one of our warriors ready to march out by the end of the week. I leave in two days with the vanguard, which should give me enough soldiers to rescue Thorin from whatever idiocy he’s managed to get himself into this time. The rest are to be kept on alert unless you get word from Thorin, the lads, Dwalin or myself to say otherwise. Make sure the defences are ready just in case but keep the markets open. I’d rather be prepared, but we do not want to overreact completely. It is possible that Thorin has simply got them all lost.’

Dís began to laugh, though it held only a little amusement.

‘Dwalin would not allow it,’ she told Balin and he nodded acknowledgement of the point.

In all likelihood this was nothing, just a misunderstanding that they would tease Thorin about later. Balin did not believe in taking things on faith though. He would feel much better once he had his King and assorted family members back where he could keep an eye on them again.

***

Exactly two days later, Balin marched out of Erebor at the head of a battalion of Erebor’s finest warriors. Even in Dwalin’s absence the legions of the King under the Mountain were impressively organised. A few words uttered to Dwalin’s lieutenants by Gimli, an hour of conversation between Gloin and the quartermasters, and the army was mustering.

If the exercise left Balin with some bad memories, worsened by the silence of Erebor’s citizens as they watched the army leave, he worked hard to push them down. It did no good to imagine doom and gloom every time something unusual happened. Especially in their family. Unusual was practically a way of life.

Dís had watched the entire process with a heavy heart that Balin wished he could ease. In her hand she clutched a locket which held a picture of her sons, though she tried to pretend she was not worried at all. Poor lass. How she must hate being left behind yet again. Part of him had wondered if he should send Dís with the army and remain behind himself to rule. He was getting older, after all. In the end, however, he was the one with experience of leading forces into battle. Dís was a fine warrior in her own right, but she was not a commander. She had never had the chance to be.

‘Old memories,’ Bifur signed to him when Balin glanced in his direction.

‘Too many,’ Balin answered honestly. Bifur nodded in understanding and clapped him on the shoulder.

They marched in virtual silence that first day, south towards the path through Thranduil’s realm which would take them across the forest and out by Beorn’s home, to the north of Lothlórien. By the second day of travel, however, the silence began to feel too doom-laden. The dwarves grew restless and a few disagreements broken out, born of the tension laying over them.

Gimli approached Balin mid-morning to report that he had already had to discipline two soldiers who had drawn weapons on one another, though thankfully only as a way of posturing. He voiced thoughts Balin had himself been having.

‘The uncertainty’s getting to them. They all know we go to find Thorin and the rest because we don’t know what’s going on. More than half of them wonder why we’re bothering at all but don’t want to say it. The others are mostly the ones who saw battle under Thror. They worry that we know more than we’re saying and Thorin’s really in trouble. It’s not a good mix, Uncle.’

‘I know,’ Balin answered, ‘but there is nothing more I can tell them either way.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Gimli told him. ‘I have another idea. Pity we don’t have Bofur with us, but it can’t be helped.’

‘Bofur?’ Balin questioned instinctively, then chuckled as he realised what Gimli meant. ‘Oh, go on then.’

Gimli moved away and, a few minutes later, voices rose among the ranks of soldiers, singing words set to the beat of marching feet. The song swept backwards down the line, until the noise was so thunderous it could have wakened the dead. The tune itself never wavered, the beat sure and true as they marched on. The words, on the other hand, appeared to be very much a matter of choice. Balin heard three different versions in his vicinity alone.

He wished Dwalin was with him. His brother had always excelled in making up his own words to these songs. It had been a competition between he and Glóin when they were young, to see which of them could throw the other off beat first. Balin wondered what Glóin was singing inside his head.

Something truly atrocious, probably. Their cousin couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket.

***

Thorin was used to the sights and smells of battlefields when the battle was done, but that did not make them any more pleasant. The smell of burning orc flesh was ever sickening and it permeated the entire area, even though they had camped at some distance. He was well on his way to deciding that food was overrated. No one needed to eat with that smell in their nose.

‘I don’t think I want this after all,’ Ori said, apparently reading Thorin’s mind and pushing the elven waybread they had been given back into his pack. ‘I thought the smells might be better this morning but they really aren’t.’

‘It’ll take a few days for the worst of it to clear,’ Dwalin answered. ‘You’ll need to eat at some point before then.’

‘Not now, though,’ Ori said firmly, tying his pack closed with determined movements. ‘Maybe if I’m hungrier I won’t notice the smell so much.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it, lad,’ Paltin, one of the Thorin’s guard, told him, ‘but you’re welcome to try.’

The conversation idled on a while longer, wending between topics that Thorin was not truly listening to. No long pauses took place, so he assumed that no one was waiting for him to contribute. He was just considering whether he should try to find Thranduil and Elrond, to discuss what they would do now that the orcs were dealt with, when something else caught his attention.

It was a noise, not particularly loud and normally nothing he would have noticed. Except that it was not a noise of nature, it was… Thorin looked about at the elves, whose hearing far outmatched his own, and saw that any number of them were staring to the north, as he had been.

Rising to his feet, Thorin approached one of the elven campfires just in time to see one of Elrond’s household clap his hands over his ears.

‘Valar above, that is awful,’ another of the elves moaned. ‘If there was any mercy in the world someone would have gagged them.’

‘Never mind the noise,’ a female elf with her hand on her sword told them. ‘The important part is what is making the noise. It must be goblins. We need to speak to Lord Elrond.’

She began to rise to her feet and Thorin, concerned, moved forward himself. That was when Thranduil approached with a smile that made Thorin even more nervous.

‘Thorin, my friend,’ the elven King said cheerfully, ‘I do believe your kin are joining us.’

‘My kin?’ Thorin questioned doubtfully. At the same time the elf who had been clutching his head spoke as well.

‘Of course,’ he complained, ‘who else, other than goblins, could make that sort of din?’

‘Just make them stop,’ the second elf begged, then looked determinedly at his lap when he realised he had become the focus of not one but two disapproving royal glances.

‘Unless another race has suddenly developed a great love of songs relating to…’ Thranduil paused a moment, apparently listening carefully, ‘ah, crushing someone’s stones with a hammer, then I do believe we are about to be joined by dwarves.’

Thorin glared at Thranduil for a moment, just on general principle, then shouted for Ori and Dwalin as he began to move towards the source of the sound. It grew closer every moment, the volume rising steadily. Soon it was clearly audible even to Thorin’s people and many of them rose to join their King.

Then they appeared. A mass of dwarves rounded a slope ahead of Thorin and approaching rapidly. They were quite the sight, sun glinting off steel helms and shields, the front rows armed with pikes which rose above their ranks.

They were also, even Thorin was forced to admit, making a terrible racket.

Thankfully it did not last long. The noise stopped in a wave, spreading out from the front and centre where the order had clearly been given.

Given by Balin, Thorin could see now, who marched at the head of the army. His friend’s telltale white hair was hidden between his helm, but now he was close enough Thorin could identify him simply by the way he marched.

Thorin had not the faintest idea what Balin was doing here when he was supposed to be in Erebor, but he was glad to see him nonetheless.

‘Brother!’ Dwalin shouted from beside Thorin as soon as the force was in earshot. ‘Where were you yesterday when we could have done with reinforcements?’

‘You have no room to talk!’ was Balin’s response. ‘Where were you weeks ago when you were due to return to Erebor?’

‘There was a council in Lothlórien,’ Thorin broke in. ‘Surely Bard told you he had been sent for?’

‘Oh, he did that,’ Balin said with mock patience. ‘He told us there was some highly important discussion taking place and Galadriel had invited him to attend. What he could not tell us, what _no one_ has been able to tell us, is what exactly it was about, why it was so important and why you did not return.’

Thorin stared at him for a moment, surprised.

‘I was going to explain it all when I got back,’ he told Balin carefully. ‘If you were that worried, why did Dís not just send a raven?’

Silence fell for a moment as the two groups stared at each other. Then, suddenly, it was broken.

‘Oh please, my King,’ Nori cackled, ‘ _please_ say that to your sister when we get back to Erebor. It has been far too long since I watched her eviscerate someone!’

***

It took some time for everything to be properly explained. The fate of Dís’s message was still unknown, though the presence of the Nazgûl in Dol Guldur hinted at an explanation. The rest was mostly just a case of filling Balin and the others in on the happenings in Lothlórien and the decisions that had been made.

‘So it became clear that the Fellowship would need a distraction and it was agreed that we would ride home and try and draw the orcs away from Bilbo and the others,’ Ori said as he drew the discussion to a conclusion. ‘We had a run in with the Nazgûl but Glorfindel was able to distract them with some help from Thranduil and they were washed away. We met the orcs in battle last night and defeated them, hence the stench, and we were going to make for Erebor to begin mustering the army. Elrond and Thranduil were to do the same and we would meet on the banks of the River Running before we marched south to Mordor.’

‘Just to ensure I understand,’ Balin said carefully. ‘Bilbo has been in possession of the One Ring all these years. He has decided to journey to Mordor to destroy it, along with Fíli and Kíli and a number of others, and they are going to try and sneak past Sauron’s entire army in order to do so.’

‘And Dwalin sent Frodo off to join him,’ Thorin added.

‘And Dwalin sent… Dwalin did WHAT?’ Balin ended on a shout. Dwalin did his best to make himself invisible. It was entirely unsuccessful. Balin’s glare could have scorched him on the spot.

‘It isn’t as simple as Thorin is making it sound,’ Dwalin argued. Thorin huffed and Ori gave a despairing sigh.

‘I think perhaps we need to go over that part in more detail,’ Balin announced. ‘A _lot_ more detail.’

***

‘You’ll have to give in eventually,’ Nori pointed out to Dwalin calmly, once they had all supposedly gone to bed for the evening. The Captain of the Guard had placed himself on watch and stared out into the blackness impassively. Or so it appeared, anyway. Nori had spent a lot of time figuring out how to get under Dwalin’s skin. The mask didn’t work as well on him as it used to.

‘Get lost, Nori,’ Dwalin growled in reply. ‘I’m in no mood to talk.’

‘You’re never in the mood to talk,’ Nori answered, unconcerned. ‘When has that ever stopped me?’

Nori suspected that Dwalin’s ears were still ringing from the discussion he’d had with the rest of the Company earlier. Nori himself didn’t object to what Dwalin had done too much. He knew how stubborn Frodo could be, how much he took after Bilbo, and he suspected that Frodo would have found his way to Bilbo one way or another. Not everyone had agreed with him.

‘Can’t you just leave it be?’ Dwalin asked tiredly. Nori almost felt bad enough to agree. Almost.

‘If you don’t apologise, Thorin never will,’ Nori said instead. ‘He’s fuming still, which is no surprise. We all know how protective he is of them all. Having to let Bilbo and the lads go without him was bad enough, but knowing Frodo’s out there is even worse. He’ll fuss and fret inside over all the things that could go wrong when he isn’t there to look after them, and the more he fusses and frets the longer he’ll stay angry. Add to that the stubborn Durin pride and, in the end, it’s all going to come down to you.’

‘Then we’ll just have to stay like this,’ Dwalin said obstinately. ‘I did what I thought was best and him throwing a tantrum isn’t going to change that. I can live without Thorin’s approval if I need to.’

Nori resisted the urge to copy Ori’s earlier despairing sigh. They were hopeless, both of them.

‘Of course you can,’ he said in truly patronising manner. Then, tone changing and very quiet, serious as he tried not to be too often, he added, ‘but tell me, Dwalin, how many years of friendship are you willing to lose for the sake of being right?’

Dwalin did not answer. He continued staring ahead and gave no indication he’d even heard Nori. Nori thought that was probably the best he was going to get. Rising almost silently, he left Dwalin with one last thought.

‘It’s a lonely way to live, Dwalin.’

***

‘I would say something,’ Balin stated nonchalantly as he and Thorin sat at a campfire not so far from Dwalin’s position, ‘but it sounds as if Thranduil has already made every argument I could.’

‘If you have talked to Thranduil then you also know what my answer will be,’ Thorin responded stiffly.

Clearly Balin, despite what he had just said, could not resist at least one comment.

‘He would die for you and never stop to consider his own survival. Is that worth nothing, after all these years?’

‘It is his job to keep them safe, Balin!’ Thorin argued angrily.

‘And he did what he did because he was trying to,’ Balin replied. ‘Oh sod it,’ he continued, ‘I’m going to argue with you anyway.’

‘Somehow that does not surprise me,’ Thorin commented snidely. Balin gave him a warning look and he subsided.

‘You are King under the Mountain,’ Balin said, ‘and with that title comes any number of responsibilities you know well. Our role, mine and Dwalin’s and your other advisors’, is not written down anywhere. There are no oaths to cover what we must do, so we make our own way. Sometimes, Thorin, that means we have to be the ones making the heartless decisions. I must decide which of our people get what help we can offer. In Ered Luin I know of at least one dwarf who died because I made that decision. That guilt never leaves me. Some nights, bad nights, it claws at me worse than any kill I have made in battle. It had to be made, however. We did not have enough for everyone.

‘Dwalin makes those decisions his own way. In war there are always people who suffer when we wish they had been kept safe. He had a soldier before him, young though that soldier might have been, and he made the decision he thought would do the most good. Do not think for a moment that the guilt will not choke him if that decision goes badly. Do not think he does not wish he could have done otherwise. Add to that guilt if you must, but at least remember that we make those decisions so you do not have to.’

Thorin was silent for a long time. Long enough that Balin had probably given up hope of an answer until he spoke.

‘I’ll talk to him in the morning.’

That would have to be enough.

***

If Balin was going to insist that Thorin spoke to Dwalin, and clearly he was, Thorin wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. The sun had barely risen, and Dwalin had not long been asleep, when Thorin went over to him, kicked him with a little more force than he might otherwise have used and ordered, ‘Follow me.’

He was still Dwalin’s King. His Captain of the Guard rose almost instantly, shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his axes and followed along behind.

Thorin took them a fair way from the camp to ensure that no one could hear them. It was not exactly a secret that he and Dwalin were currently at odds, but there was no reason to play this whole thing out in front of an entire camp. Besides, the injured deserved their rest and there was every possibility that this was going to get very loud.

‘Well?’ Dwalin growled when they’d stopped, belligerence clear in his tone. Thorin’s reaction, perfectly justified in his book, was to punch him in the stomach.

Hard.

All of Dwalin’s breath left him in a rush, along with an ‘oof’ noise which Thorin found very satisfying.

‘You have risked his life and you have the gall to stand there and act as if all of this is somehow my fault!’

Dwalin, now recovering his breath, just looked at him for a moment before speaking.

‘It is done, Thorin. It is done and he is gone and none of it can be changed now. What would you have me say?’

‘You could at least pretend a little regret,’ Thorin argued. Part of him was aware that this conversation was going nowhere fast, but he would be damned if he would let Dwalin off the hook without saying any of what he thought.

‘Pretend?’ Dwalin said incredulously. ‘I don’t need to _pretend_ , you ass. Do you think I wanted to send him off into danger? Or any of them?’

‘Well it certainly does not seem to be bothering you overmuch,’ was Thorin’s rejoinder.

‘Of course it doesn’t,’ Dwalin retorted. ‘How many of my soldiers would follow me so willingly if I seemed to constantly be bemoaning every hard decision that had to be made?’

‘Dwalin, it is Frodo,’ was all Thorin could think to say. That was the crux of the matter, after all. It was their youngest, the lad they had all raised and loved in the peace of their reclaimed home.

‘I know it’s Frodo,’ Dwalin answered. ‘I could hardly have missed it! But how long were we going to keep him wrapped in blankets and locked within Erebor whenever there was danger? Balin has marched here with an army simply because he had no word from us. We are going to need that army to fight Sauron very soon. Would you have left him behind as all those he trained with marched off to war? He is a warrior of Erebor, just as they all are.’

‘He didn’t need to be,’ Thorin said quietly, bitterly. ‘We could have spared him that.’

‘He didn’t want to be spared,’ Dwalin insisted. ‘He wants to be like his Uncles. He wants to fight to defend his home and his people. That is his choice, Thorin, as once it was ours. Thror did not command us to go to Azanulbizar. We chose it.’

‘Which is a very good reason why Frodo should not have gone anywhere near Mordor,’ Thorin replied. ‘If Azanulbizar was bad…. If he dies Dwalin….’

‘If he dies then not even my own death will be punishment enough,’ Dwalin said lowly, ‘but then I can say the same of all those we lose in battle. There is little comfort for the families of the dead no matter who it is or how they died.’

They stared at one another then. Thorin, defeated, realised that he had nothing left to say. Dwalin was right. It was done now and they had a war to fight.

‘We will need to work together, at least,’ he said at last. ‘Thranduil is right, I cannot keep relaying orders through Ori all the time.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you can,’ Dwalin agreed. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Get on with it,’ Thorin answered. ‘Do as we have always done. Try and defeat Sauron without dying and hope that Bilbo’s Fellowship can do the same.’

Dwalin nodded.

‘Will you feel better if you get to keep hitting me?’ he asked Thorin with apparent sincerity.

‘Probably,’ Thorin told him. ‘It would not hurt.’

‘Not you, anyway,’ Dwalin drawled. ‘I suppose you can, then, if it will stop the endless glaring.’

‘As if I actually need permission,’ Thorin scoffed.

‘You don’t need permission to try,’ Dwalin informed him. ‘You just need me to stand still so you can actually do it.’

‘Which of us had the breath knocked out of him earlier?’ Thorin asked indignantly.

‘The one who didn’t move out the way when you signalled your intentions as clear as day,’ Dwalin said with a snort.

Thorin lashed out quickly and Dwalin sidestepped him neatly.

‘You’re getting slow,’ Dwalin mocked. Thorin went to retort and then stopped himself.

‘I am not getting drawn into this with you,’ he said loftily. ‘Go and do something useful.’

‘I’m going back to sleep,’ Dwalin said firmly. ‘Do not leave to go after them until I’m awake again.’

With that he walked off, heading straight for his bedroll.

Thorin, stunned, stood and watched him leave.

Do not do what?

******


	26. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Dwalin does know best. Thorin won't be admitting that, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this time, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bargaining

Despite the lies Dwalin liked to tell people, a few hours of thought was not normally a painful experience for Thorin. He was perfectly capable of considering a situation rationally, often from a variety of angles, and then coming to a conclusion about what should be done.

If he did not always follow this logical conclusion, that was none of anyone else’s business.

Very well, perhaps that was untrue. It _should_ be true, of course, but when one was the King of Erebor sometimes allowances had to be made.

It really wasn’t good form to run off without taking council from one’s councillors. It was what they were there for, after all. It was only polite to let them try and do their job.

Thorin would, however, be more willing to be polite if Balin was not quite so loud in his disapproval.

‘Thorin, you cannot go tramping off through the wild to try and catch up with the lads and Bilbo; you have responsibilities! A war is not the time to start following whatever idiotic course of action flies into your head. Besides, how will you even get there in time?’ Balin asked in clear exasperation. ‘You are weeks down the road and all the will in the world will not speed you on your way. You would do nothing but trail after them for months.’

‘I have every confidence that you and Dwalin are perfectly capable of organising a war without me,’ was Thorin’s answer. If he was perhaps not quite as unconcerned as he sounded, he saw no reason to let on to Balin. ‘In fact you are already ahead of me, for here you have a good portion of Erebor’s army and I am told that the rest was mustering when you left. You will be able to meet the others on the banks of the River Running without much difficulty.’

‘In fact,’ Elrohir put in, ‘we are now somewhat behind, Father. Perhaps we had best send a rider to Rivendell to speed progress.’ Most of the camp, whilst trying to seem as if they were busy about their work, were in fact gathered to watch the debate. News of King Thorin’s plan to leave suddenly and head south had spread quickly.

Elrond considered his son’s suggestion for a moment, before nodding.

‘See it done,’ he commanded and Elrohir turned to find some hapless elf to send off through the Misty Mountains. He had one more comment before he left, however. Looking directly at Thranduil and grinning cheekily he uttered the words,

‘Race you!’

Elrond groaned, Glorfindel laughed loudly and Thranduil did his very best impression of Celeborn, not even a twitch of his mouth showing a reaction to the comment.

‘Thorin,’ Balin began to say in a despairing tone.

‘Brother, he’ll be as much use as a forge made of ice while the lads are heading into danger without him and you know it,’ Dwalin interrupted. Thorin refrained from glaring at him. He had the right to hit Dwalin whenever he liked for some time to come, he reminded himself. That would right any number of slights regarding his ability to rule effectively. ‘Originally I agreed with them that Thorin would need to lead the army, but the last week or two has made it clear that we’ll be much better off without him.’

‘I _beg_ your pardon,’ Thorin said in outrage, momentarily forgetting the resolution he had made some seconds earlier.

‘Granted,’ Dwalin answered, before continuing as if Thorin had never spoken. ‘Besides, Balin, this way if some harm does come to the lads, or to any of their Fellowship, Dís will know exactly who to blame.’

This thought appeared to have a powerful effect upon Balin, as well as on other members of the Company stood nearby. Any number of them were currently considering the Princess’ behaviour when no word came from Thorin, the fate of certain items of furniture and her threats of what would happen to anyone who endangered her children or those she counted as her children.

‘That still leaves the question of how Thorin is going to catch up with them in time,’ Balin announced, though it sounded very much like a token objection. Thorin chose not to be insulted by his friends’ willingness to sacrifice him to Dís. Cursing them all for gutless cowards was unworthy of him. Truly.

‘I was not planning to walk,’ Thorin said innocently, remembering the plan that had occurred to him some hours earlier. ‘In fact, I had hoped to… borrow a way of speeding the journey, so to speak.’

Even as he said it he could not help looking towards Thranduil, most likely with a mischievous light in his eyes. The whole idea was just too perfect, he could not help himself.

‘No!’ Thranduil announced sharply in response to this look. ‘No, Thorin!  Do not even think of it.’

‘Now, really, Thranduil,’ Thorin replied, ‘surely you would not be so petty when the good of Arda is at stake.’

‘Your niggling apprehensions and inability to take a supporting role are _not_ “the good of Arda”,’ Thranduil responded. Thorin could tell he was not entirely serious, though any number of those nearby looked concerned. ‘The answer is no.’

‘We all know what the answer is,’ Dwalin butted in. ‘I want to know what the bloody question was.’

‘I was simply going to propose that I borrow a mount for the journey,’ Thorin stated, still pretending innocence. ‘One with legendary speed and stamina, which would allow me to travel far more quickly than I would otherwise be able to.’ Thranduil snorted.

‘You were proposing the blatant theft of _my_ mount,’ he proclaimed irritably, ‘purely for your own entertainment because I told you firmly that none but the King rode one of the elk of the Woodland Realm.’

Glorfindel, typically, had a sudden coughing fit.

‘If the Woodland Realm is determined to begrudge a hero their aid,’ the golden-haired elf said expansively when he had recovered, ‘then I am very happy to offer Asfaloth instead, Thorin.’

For a long moment Thranduil fought a harsh, bitter war within himself. Pride, friendship, a dislike of being outmanoeuvred and his own sense of the ridiculous all competed. Friendship won. Just.

‘Oh, very well,’ he snapped. Whistling sharply he summoned Tári, who trotted over obediently. What Thranduil said to the elk Thorin could not have said, but when he was done the animal bowed his head to Thorin. ‘Go on, then. You had best move with all speed if you are to catch them.’

Thorin repressed a grin of triumph. Perfect. Now he would be able to cover a much greater distance at speed and he had managed to discompose Thranduil in the process. A good day. The world looked brighter now he knew that he would be able to guard Frodo, Bilbo and his nephews from whatever mischief they had undoubtedly got themselves into.

***

‘You’ll not be getting any ideas,’ Dwalin said firmly to Thorin as they went over Thorin’s gear to ensure he had all he might need. Thorin refrained from sighing.

‘Are any particular ideas forbidden, or am I simply meant to stop thinking entirely?’ he asked Dwalin in return. Dwalin huffed.

‘About going off on your own,’ he clarified. ‘Just because I’m letting you go this time doesn’t mean you can make a habit of it.’

‘You aren’t _letting_ me go anywhere,’ Thorin objected, though as he expected it had little effect.

‘Bollocks I’m not,’ Dwalin said firmly. ‘If I thought I had a choice you wouldn’t be going anywhere without me to keep you out of trouble. I’m still half-considering sending Nori with you.’

‘Nori?’ Thorin asked incredulously. ‘Your answer to keeping me… avoiding trouble is to send Nori?’

‘I didn’t say it was the ideal plan,’ Dwalin responded. ‘He might be as likely to find trouble as avoid it, but he’s a damn sight better at stabbing it in the back when it arrives than you are.’

‘Skills I won’t need,’ Thorin began with certainty, before honesty compelled him to finish with, ‘hopefully.’

‘Aye, so I hope as well,’ Dwalin agreed. ‘If you hadn’t managed to pitchfork us into a war before you wandered off I’d be coming with you and you’d have no say in it at all.’

‘Pitchfork us into a…’ Thorin spluttered to a stop and glared at Dwalin with all the ferocity he could muster. ‘You’re deliberately irritating me, aren’t you?’

‘Got to enjoy myself somehow,’ Dwalin answered with a shrug. ‘Once you’re off there’ll be no one around who’ll take the bait so easily.’

‘When I return I will be finding myself a new Captain of the Guard and commander for my armies,’ Thorin said, trying his best for severity. It was not particularly successful, he had to admit.

‘If you come back and you still have a guard and an army then you’re welcome to try,’ Dwalin offered, not at all put out. ‘If you can find a fool to take the job he can have it.’ He stuffed the last few items into a saddlebag and handed it to Thorin roughly.

‘Don’t die,’ he ordered irritably, then turned and walked off.

Really, it was a wonder that Thorin had not abdicated the throne and run off years ago. He would no doubt get more respect as a travelling peddler anyway.

***

Why anyone would wish to have dwarves as friends was beyond Thranduil’s comprehension. They were rude, scheming creatures, perfectly willing to take advantage of a crisis simply to get their own way. Had Thranduil had true common sense he would have refused Thorin’s impertinent request and sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.

Once he had stopped laughing, of course. Thranduil had been royally outplayed and he knew it. The sheer novelty of the feeling made it even more enjoyable.

Life was never boring when the dwarves of Erebor were nearby. That he could admit.

In any case, for all Thranduil’s confidence in his son, and this was great and not at all feigned, he could not deny that he was happy that Thorin would soon be with Legolas and his companions. Legolas was a source of wondrous pride for his father, who knew very well that there were few in Arda who could match his son for skill in battle. He did not doubt Legolas’ abilities for a moment.

It was only that he had, on occasion, had reason to doubt Legolas’ self-preservation and common sense.

It never seemed to occur to Legolas, for example, that there might be a foe he could not defeat. Nor that his life was quite as valuable as anyone else’s and it was not necessary to throw himself heedlessly into danger in order to protect another.

Thranduil would not want his son to ignore other people’s danger, of course. It was a virtue that he was so willing to help his friends.

It was just the sort of virtue which gave a fond father more than a few sleepless nights.

Watching those around him disassemble the camp even more quickly than they had laid it the night before, Thranduil was hopeful that Thorin’s presence would increase his chance of receiving Legolas back in one piece. If only because there would be someone else present who was more likely to attract bad luck than Legolas.

It was also interesting to watch the reactions of Thorin’s close friends to his announcement. Thorin had been readying himself for the last half hour and was currently engaged in final checks of his saddlebags (which had now been relocated to Tári) and of the tack which Thranduil knew for a fact was in excellent condition. It had been a slight struggle to shorten the stirrups sufficiently to fit Thorin, but Thranduil had been a paragon of discretion during the process.

As Thorin turned away from his disgracefully-acquired mount, he found himself confronted by the remnants of his Company. Armed to the teeth, armoured in the best their people could offer, they still had the appearance of a slightly ragtag bunch of adventurers. Yet, somehow, this did not detract from their show of loyalty. As one, they bowed to their King, right hands over their hearts. Thorin, even from this distance, was clearly touched.

Thranduil knew not what he said but they moved forward in turn to clasp his arm or, in some cases, pull him into a hug.

Thorin’s army would be in safe enough hands, Thranduil thought. Unusual his closest friends might be, but they were a formidable force nonetheless.

Which, really, left Thranduil with only one major concern.

‘Amras!’ he called shortly. The leader of his forces appeared almost instantly before him.

‘My lord?’

‘Our people _will_ reach the River Running before Elrond’s,’ Thranduil informed him, no room for doubt in his voice. ‘See to it.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

***

The Company did not drag out their farewells too long. Most of what could be said was understood between them anyway.

There was one discussion, however, that needed to be had.

‘He is probably hip-deep in trouble already,’ Bifur told Thorin as they prepared to part. Thorin, knowing Bofur as he did, thought this was more than likely, ‘and for good reason knowing Bofur,’ Bifur continued. ‘We’re fond of him anyway. Try to bring him home in one piece.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Thorin assured Bifur, then looked at Bombur to include him in the statement.

Bombur smiled in response.

‘I am not the pessimist Bifur is,’ he said gently. ‘Bilbo and Sigrid will be working to rein Bofur in and they have the best chance of managing it. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

‘As long as they don’t let him wander or talk to anyone remotely important,’ Bifur added. Thorin noticed that Bombur did not disagree.

For a moment it seemed that Bifur was done and would move away. Then he stopped and turned back to Thorin, eyes solemn.

‘You’ll take care of him?’ he asked Thorin worriedly. ‘I should be…’, but this sentence he did not finish.

‘I will,’ Thorin assured him quietly. ‘Take care of the young soldiers, prepare them as well as you can, and let me worry about Bofur.’

Bifur nodded sharply and this time when he turned he did walk away.

***

Finally, Thorin was ready to be on his way. His Company had promised him faithfully that Erebor, and indeed all the forces of his allies, would be in place to provide the distraction the Fellowship would so dearly need. He did not doubt them. They were more than capable of arranging all that needed to be done.

He was on the verge of mounting and riding off when suddenly his attention was caught.

‘Thorin,’ Elrond said in a voice deliberately calm. Thorin looked over at him sharply, concerned by the fact that the tone sounded deliberate. Elrond, of all of them, was usually the hardest to discompose. The frown that was tightening Elrond’s forehead, as it had when Sméagol had been found missing, was even more concerning.

‘What is it?’ Thorin asked swiftly, heart beginning to pound.

‘You will probably wish to stop in Lothlórien on your way south,’ Elrond answered, serenity most definitely cracking now. Thorin felt nausea rise and his hands, which were holding Tári’s bridle, tightened to the point that the elk shook its head in irritation. Thorin deliberately loosened his grip and took a deep breath as he nodded for Elrond to continue.

‘Galadriel is trying to reach me,’ Elrond informed him gently. ‘It is hard to manage a clear message at such a distance but I fear… I fear that she has received a request from Rohan. They wish to have wergild paid. On the instruction of Fíli, Crown Prince of Erebor.’

Thorin felt the world rock slightly beneath him. A number of voices clamoured around him, but none were loud enough to drown out the words ringing through Thorin’s head.

Oh Mahal, Fíli, what have you done?

******

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene between Thorin and Thranduil is entirely the, in my opinion, genius of ISeeFire :D She comes up with the ideas and I just try to get them written.


	27. Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Riders are upon them.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Prey

‘We cannot kill them all,’ was the thought paramount in Aragorn’s mind when Sméagol warned them that the other Nazgûl were coming. If one Nazgûl had taken so much effort to dispatch another seven would surely be beyond their power. Aragorn had spent his adult life fighting any battle that needed to be fought, with the confidence that his training made him equal to his enemies. Now, for the first time, that confidence had deserted him.

‘Elladan,’ he said shakily, looking at his brother with an expression which he was sure was entirely horrified. For one brief moment he was sure that Elladan looked the same. Then it was gone and only calm remained. Whether the calm was real or feigned Aragorn could not tell. In truth, he did not want to know.

‘Sméagol, where are they?’ Elladan asked quickly. Aragorn was pleased to see that even now the hobbits were gathering themselves. Merry grabbed his dropped sword and settled it back in his hand, while Pippin examined his own and scowled at a nick in the blade, presumably caused when it had got stuck in the Nazgûl’s armour.

‘Two nightmares not far,’ Sméagol replied. ‘Coming into trees where we did.’

Which meant that they were no more than minutes away. Aragorn considered the possibility of running and dismissed it. They were not fresh enough to run for miles and with the Nazgûl so close the likelihood was that they would not make it far anyway. There was nowhere safe to go and they would only tire themselves before inevitably having to fight.

‘What do we do?’ Merry asked, voicing all of their thoughts. Aragorn exchanged another glance with his brother, saw the question in his eyes and nodded.

‘We fight,’ Elladan stated. ‘If there are two then Estel and I will take one each. Merry, stay with Estel. Pippin, you are with me. Sméagol… do whatever damage you can. We must try to get blows inside their helmets and hope that works as well on the others as it did on this one.’

The hobbits nodded silently, visibly steeling themselves for battle. Sméagol stepped away, almost disappearing into the brush. By this time they could hear the heavy tramp of armoured boots making their way through the forest. Aragorn could feel his breath coming short and forced himself to breathe more deeply. It was only a battle, he told himself. Nothing he had not done any number of times. To distract himself from the doubt inside his own mind he focused instead on Merry.

‘You will be alright,’ he told the hobbit reassuringly. Merry looked rather white under his determined expression.

‘I know,’ Merry answered, only a hint of uncertainty to be heard. ‘It’s just not quite what I was expecting, that’s all. Training isn’t the same as actually fighting, is it?’

‘No,’ Aragorn answered softly. ‘It never is.’

‘Oh well,’ Merry said after a moment, shrugging. ‘No use worrying about it now.’ They were a courageous pair, Aragorn thought to himself. A little thoughtless, silly as Sméagol would put it, but courageous nonetheless.

‘Here soon,’ Sméagol’s voice called from somewhere nearby, somewhere above them if Aragorn guessed correctly. Aragorn hefted Anduril, making certain his grip on his sword was sure, and remembered the sense of pride he had felt when Elrond had given him the blade of his forefathers. Passed down to him from a hero of his people, of Arda, and reforged by those who were heroes in their own right. He would do Anduril justice today, Aragorn promised himself. Narsil had cut the ring from Sauron’s hand when wielded by Isildur. Whatever end Isildur had come to, that was a deed worthy of emulation.

The black riders were already before him as he finished this thought. Sméagol’s name for them had never seemed more appropriate. They appeared nightmarish even in the light of day, so unnatural that the rest of the world seemed bizarre in their presence, too light and green to be real.

Ironically, the Nazgûl seemed to be perfectly happy to comply with Elladan’s plan. Though they had approached the clearing as a pair they immediately separated when faced with their foes, one turning towards Aragorn and the other towards his brother. Aragorn could only hope that they had not yet noticed the hobbits, who were stood behind the taller fighters. Aragorn and his friends needed all the advantages they could get in this battle.

The first swing that Aragorn’s opponent made was easily enough avoided. He leant back and it passed through the air before him, as if the Nazgûl could not quite be bothered to take this fight seriously.

Aragorn’s response was to strike out at its midriff. If he could hamper the Nazgûl’s movement he would have a far better chance of winning the fight. The hit only connected lightly, the Nazgûl taking a step back once it sensed his intention, but a small slice did appear in its cloak. When it came back at him there was more purpose to its movements. For some minutes they both struck out in turn, neither connecting, each swing evaded and missing its mark. Aragorn feared at one point that he would knock into Merry, but his fears never became reality. Merry had moved back out of the way, but Aragorn could spare no glance to find him.

Then he did not need to. Attempting to replicate the trick which had worked so well a short time earlier, Merry dodged into view and crashed into the Nazgûl’s legs. The Nazgûl did not fall, unfortunately, but it was momentarily distracted and Aragorn used the advantage. It parried his blow weakly, half its attention on its footing and the hobbit it was tangled with. Had Aragorn had a second to spare on amusement, he would have found the Nazgûl’s stagger diverting. In its confusion Aragorn was able to pull Anduril free of its blade and hit out again. A strike to its face had little chance of success, with the Nazgûl’s sword held half in front of the gaping hole in its cloak, but a swing at its neck was true and connected with a grating noise that made Aragorn wince.

Merry, having realised that his ploy was unsuccessful, had untangled himself and jumped back out of the way. The Nazgûl began to kick out at the hobbit before Aragorn caught its attention and the sharp spike on the end of its boot caught Merry’s leg. Aragorn yanked Anduril back and moved to close with Nazgûl before it could get any further ideas. He struck again at its neck and was parried quickly as the Nazgûl protected the wound it had just taken. Then, taking a leaf from its own book, Aragorn kicked the side of its knee.

How much effect that had he wasn’t sure. The Nazgûl did not stumble or fall, as a mortal man might have done. It paused briefly, but Aragorn could not be certain that it was from pain. When the Nazgûl swivelled on that leg a moment later he suspected not. Left leg remaining in place, the Nazgûl moved the right back and gathered itself for a heavy blow. Perhaps its movement was a little slower after all, for Aragorn could see what its plan was seconds before it struck out and brought Anduril up to block. The blades met with a crash of steel as Aragorn locked his arm to hold strong. The Nazgûl’s sword had been aimed at his head and the blades were now poised in such a position that the Nazgûl could easily chop at Aragorn’s neck, if only it could overpower him.

It tried its best. Raising its free hand the Nazgûl took a two-handed grip on its sword and began to force the blade downward, edging bit by bit towards Aragorn’s unprotected throat. Aragorn was compelled to take the same grip on Anduril, resisting with everything he had and managing to make back at least a little of the space he had lost.

Yet this was a trial of strength that Aragorn feared he could only sustain for so long against an enemy no longer of this world. Teeth gritted, he growled with effort as he put everything he had into trying to break the stalemate and knew, even as he did so, that it would not be enough.

Thankfully he was not fighting alone. Merry had not gone far, only far enough to flank the Nazgûl from the other side, hoping to take it by surprise again. Now, all its focus elsewhere, he ran forward with blade raised and slammed the point into its side, a shout on his lips. The Nazgûl’s concentration was broken, its strength lessened in that moment, and Aragorn broke free even as Merry hurtled back the way he had come.

He raised Anduril, preparing to end the battle once and for all, when a sound like a rusty hinge being forced open escaped from his enemy, only a thousand times worse and filled, somehow, with overpowering terror. Merry screamed in horror, arms raised to clap over his ears, and Aragorn himself gave a gasp of pain as the noise ripped through him like lightning.

***

Aragorn had had little opportunity to be concerned with the second battle taking place in the clearing, but it was just as fierce. Elladan’s opponent might have looked identical to its brethren, but it was a different style of fighter. It was not concerned with strength but with speed and even elven abilities were hard-pressed to keep pace. Elladan felt as if he had been halfway round the clearing three times without landing more than one or two blows in the whole fight. If he had avoided taking any himself it was due in large part to Pippin and Sméagol, who were causing just enough trouble for the Nazgûl at the right times.

Elladan had finally managed one moment to catch his breath as the Nazgûl whirled in a circle and struck out behind it, frustrated by one of these incidents, which had seen Pippin throw a stone straight into its face while Sméagol threw another at its sword-arm. Neither assailant had remained in place to be struck, though the Nazgûl caught Pippin’s cloak and ripped it from his body as he escaped. Of the stone Pippin had thrown there was no sign, which would have interested Elladan more closely had he not been rather busy.

Deprived of its target the Nazgûl returned its attention to Elladan, who heaved an internal sigh as he closed once more. The Nazgûl’s blade whipped down towards his chest, halting abruptly short of Elladan’s blade and reversing to slice at his unprotected side. Only long acquaintance and training with Glorfindel, who adored that trick and used it with irritating frequency, had taught Elladan the signs and saved him. With no concern at all for dignity he threw himself backwards, flipped and came back to his feet some distance away.

Elrohir could, if he ever found out, mutter about cowardice all he liked. _He_ was not the one fighting a creature straight from the blackest legends of Arda.

Now Elladan’s opponent approached once more, sword raised high and tilted slightly downward. The sight made Elladan rather suspicious. If the Nazgûl normally disdained strength, and he had ample evidence that it did, why was it poised as if going in for a deathblow? Stepping to the side, keeping his eyes locked on the Nazgûl, Elladan tried to work out what game it was playing.

The slightest hint of motion enlightened him. The Nazgûl’s right hand might be held up high, but his left hand, which might normally be used to support his sword for such a move, stayed close to his side. Now Elladan saw why. A shorter blade, the length of one of the hobbit swords but narrower, was being pulled from beneath its cloak.

So Nazgûl were not above playing dirty. Well, luckily, neither was Elladan.

He started forward, raising his sword and appearing ready to block the blade the Nazgûl had raised. It moved towards him swiftly, keen to make its move, and kept its sword raised high. Its other hand, holding the dagger, drew back slightly but remained close to its body.

Elladan did not wait for its attempt to stab him. Copying a move beloved of another frustrating friend, Elladan leapt into the air, caught hold of a low-lying branch and pulled himself up out of the way. The Nazgûl charged forward, unable to stop its momentum, flew underneath Elladan’s raised legs and nearly crashed into a different tree. Dropping down to the ground, Elladan ran forward and stabbed it in the back.

That also burned, he discovered. Valar but he hated these things.

Luckily the pain was not so bad that he lost his grip on his sword. Circling round he did his best to approach the Nazgûl from the front while it was still at a disadvantage, hoping to stab the thing in the face and have done with it.

He might have succeeded had he not been interrupted by the most painful, piercing shriek he had ever heard. It was instantly followed by horrified cries from the hobbits and Elladan allowed himself to let out his own pained noise. His advantage was lost, though he recovered quickly, and the fight began again.

***

Pippin was heartily sick of this whole episode, though he didn’t have a great deal of time to focus on his disgust. He had spent what felt like hours running from place to place, grabbing at stones, heavy branches, anything that looked like it would be good ammunition and hurling it as accurately as he could at the Nazgûl. Perhaps he would be less annoyed if he felt as if they were getting anywhere. As it was they were barely holding their own.

Yet, even within his frustration and despite his tiredness, the grain of an idea was growing. When he and Merry had talked to the others before they split up, they had been told the tale of their encounter with the Witch-King. They had, of course, been told how the Nazgûl had been driven off.

What Pippin and his friends needed was fire.

Pippin, who was mostly being ignored by the Nazgûl (except for the destruction of his cloak, which he was going to be absolutely furious about when he had a minute to himself), was ideally placed to create some.

‘Sméagol,’ he hissed urgently as soon as they were safely out of range. Sméagol looked over curiously, whilst still trying to keep an eye on Elladan. ‘Can you keep it distracted?’ Sméagol nodded and Pippin didn’t bother asking twice. As Sméagol darted off again, Pippin pulled the tinderbox, which he had taken to keeping very close, out of his pocket and grabbed for some sort of wood. Thankfully that, at least, was plentiful.

He had to wait a few seconds before he tried to make a spark, for his hands were shaking and he really didn’t want to end the fight by burning the woodland they were in to the ground.

He was delayed even further when his ears were assaulted by the Nazgûl’s shrieking, causing Pippin to drop to the floor and cover his head in a desperate attempt to block the noise out. When it stopped it was a moment before he could recover himself, but after a second his sense of urgency returned and he managed to create a blessed spark, igniting a branch and preparing to run back into the clearing.

It was then that he saw Merry. Still shaky with pain and fear, his friend was crawling quickly back across the ground, but not quickly enough to escape the Nazgûl striding towards him.

***

Though pain had only dragged a gasp from Aragorn, fear now forced a full-fledged cry from his throat. In their moment of distraction the Nazgûl had changed its target, moving with inhuman speed. It advanced on Merry now, ignoring Aragorn in favour of a smaller opponent. Aragorn began to move towards them, but the world appeared to have slowed, as if he were moving at half his normal speed, and he knew he would not make it in time.

Merry had raised his sword, holding it before him as he had been taught and clearly forcing himself to steadiness. Whether the Nazgûl was playing with him, or Merry really had been able to block its first strike was unclear. The hobbit backed away, but the Nazgûl needed only one step to make up any ground Merry had gained, and this time Merry did not parry firmly enough. The Nazgûl’s sword missed him, but only by a hair’s breadth. The Nazgûl plunged it into the ground and reached for Merry, drawing out a dagger as it did so. Aragorn was only a few steps away, so close and yet still powerless to save his young charge.

When Merry was suddenly knocked out of the way he could scarcely believe it. The dagger missed, the Nazgûl lurched forward and only then did Aragorn realise that Sméagol had abandoned the other Nazgûl and moved to Merry’s side more swiftly than Aragorn had been able to. Snarling with fury, the twisted hobbit stood in front of his friend and almost dared the Nazgûl to strike him

It obliged.

Lashing out with its hand, it sent Sméagol flying for the second time that day and this time he could not save himself before he hit the tree.

Now, with one last step, Aragorn was able to reach Merry. As the hobbit rose to his feet, Aragorn engaged the Nazgûl, driving it back several steps. He struck once, twice, was blocked and moved aside to avoid being struck. Merry, recovered and clearly enraged by the attack on Sméagol, now rushed forward and jumped up. His foot hit Aragorn’s bent leg and he pushed off, launching himself higher into the air and towards the Nazgûl before his blade slammed into its unprotected face. Almost instantly Merry released the sword and fell down, arm clutched to his chest. Even so, it had been enough. The Nazgûl crumpled in the same fashion as the one Elladan had killed earlier.

Across the clearing, a glimmer of flame caught Aragorn’s eye just as Pippin ran forward and set the other Nazgûl’s cloak ablaze with a shout of anger. Seconds later Elladan felled his second Nazgûl of the day, stabbing into its hood and then yanking his sword out quickly, hissing as he twisted his wrist and shook his hand out. Pippin, in a moment of practicality that impressed Aragorn greatly, extinguished his makeshift torch, grabbed his ruined cloak and made frantic attempts to put the flames out before they could spread. He was soon joined by Sméagol, who was moving stiffly but determinedly.

Merry had forced himself back to his feet by this point and was gazing between his hand and the Nazgûl with a disbelieving look. Aragorn was concerned and rested his hand on the hobbit’s shoulder to gain his attention. Merry looked up at him, then began to snicker helplessly.

‘No one at home is ever, ever going to believe this,’ he forced out between giggles. ‘They’ll think I’m as mad as Bilbo.’

***

Three down, unfortunately, still left five to go. Presumably the other five Nazgûl had not thought the woodland was worth investigating, for there was no sign of them as yet, but Elladan was not ready to trust that their luck would hold.

‘Do we stay or go?’ Pippin asked once the fire had been extinguished and they had gathered together.

‘How far does this woodland reach?’ Estel asked rhetorically. ‘We cannot stay in this spot, not when we’ve been found twice, but if there is somewhere else we can go then it would make no sense to leave what cover we’ve found.’

‘I think we need to consider how they’re finding us,’ Merry put in. ‘These three didn’t stumble over us by accident, unless they were all very, very lucky.’

‘They scent fear,’ Elladan said heavily, ‘or so my father has always believed, as well as whatever dark magic Sauron uses. They became wraiths through exposure to the Rings of Power and it is possible this form strengthened their connection to the source of that power.’

‘So is it worth hiding?’ Merry questioned. ‘If they aren’t close enough to sense us then they might give up the chase.’

‘Unless they wondered where their brethren had gone and become suspicious, they might,’ Elladan offered. He was concerned about the possibility that the Nazgûl might return and knew that they needed to scout for the others, but he could not deny that they needed rest. A short nap had not fully renewed their energy and the fight had drained it still further. Estel looked haggard and the hobbits were not much better. His decision was made for him.

‘Gather our things now and we will make for the treeline. If we can see nothing nearby then we will have to assume ourselves safe for the moment and sleep. If we do not then we will not get far.’

They all complied, though their steps were heavier than normal. Merry broke a branch beneath his feet with a sharp snap and nearly frightened himself half to death. The woodland was not as big as Elladan had believed, which concerned him, and it took only a short time to reach the edge of the trees. The light was brighter than Elladan felt it should have been, the time that had passed not as great as the deeds that had been done.

At first it appeared they might be safe. The area around their woodland looked clear enough and Elladan was about to guide them deeper in once more to find their rest.

Then a black-clad figure appeared on the crest of a rock some distance away, head twisting from side to side before it dropped to the floor.

Clearly they were still being hunted.

***

Sméagol was not a good person.

He knew that, had been realising it more and more since he had met his hobbits, who were both so truly good.

Good people did not kill the innocent for anything. Certainly not their own cousins. Not even for an evil ring. The hobbit, Bilbo, had had Sméagol’s ring for years and he had not killed anyone.

Not Sméagol’s ring. Not Sméagol’s, he told himself again. He had been telling himself so for days.

Which was another way Sméagol could tell he wasn’t a good person. A good person wouldn’t have tried to take the ring by force from someone who had been nothing but kind to him. They wouldn’t have whined and complained and said horrible things to their friends when they were stopped.

A good person wouldn’t have sulked for days because they had been stopped.

A good person wouldn’t still, somewhere inside, want the ring more than anything else. More than life, or breath, or even his hobbits.

Sméagol was not a good person.

But he was clever enough to know that he was a danger. To the kind elf’s brother, and to the ranger, and to his hobbits. The nightmares could feel the magic of the ring. They could feel its call.

So could Sméagol. He had held it so long it was almost a part of him.

And that, he thought, meant that the nightmares could feel him.

That was how they could find his friends. That, in the end, would doom those friends.

Except that Sméagol, though not a good person, had a little bit of good inside him. Not much. Maybe not enough, in the end, but a little. Just enough to show him what he had to do.

His body ached from hitting the tree earlier. It was hard to breathe properly, the ache flaring to sharp pain when he took too deep a breath. Hopefully it would not slow him too much.

Sméagol needed to take the nightmares away and to do that he would need to be quick. Even if he was, at the last, not quite quick enough.

That in mind, Sméagol knew what he was going to do. He began, once again, to run.

Out of the trees, into the light he had avoided for so long. Away from his friends, ignoring the cries of his hobbits, both of fear and of anger. He hoped the anger meant that the kind elf and the ranger had held them back.

He ran in front of the nightmare, where it could not possibly miss him, and then on and on. He ran for what felt like days.

And one by one, as they caught sight of their prey, the Nazgûl followed.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been coming for a while. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed getting it written out.


	28. Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruman cannot be ignored forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an incident towards the end of this chapter that some readers might find disturbing. I don't think it needs a warning tag but please see the end note if you want to be careful.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shatter

Dís, daughter of Dílna, had little time for weakness. The women of the line of Durin had always stood behind their kin, supporting those who ruled, providing training for those who would rule in the future. Dís knew she was the first for many, many years to rule herself, but the burden was little different. Do not falter, do not fall, do not let them see any hint of a crack that could be chipped away at.

She would hand their kingdom back to her brother, to her sons, as whole as it was when they had placed it in her charge. With Balin and all the Company gone, though, she would have to do it on her own.

She missed Vili.

He was one of the few she had ever spoken to bluntly about how it felt to be the one left behind, the one holding the world together while the men went off to war. The day they had become betrothed he had promised her that he would not leave her in such a way unless he had no choice. No taunts about cowardice had swayed him in the years of their marriage. He was resolute in keeping his promise. She had loved him for it and her brother for never questioning Vili’s determination to stay with her.

The irony, bitter and galling, that Vili had then been taken from her anyway by a raid on Ered Luin, which had forced him to defend their home when he had not the skills to do so, had nearly broken her once.

She had been saved by their boys. Even all the years they had lived without their father had not erased the traces of him in their character. Fíli had all his goodness, Kíli his utter determination to do what he thought was right no matter the cost. Dís loved them even more for that, as she loved the ways they had grown like Thorin, how they had turned to him as a model for their own behaviour. She loved Thorin for always telling them how brave Vili had been, how hard he had fought to keep them safe.

She just wished that, every once in a while, one of them would remain behind to be with her.

‘Dís,’ a voice said quietly, pulling her from her thoughts. Nula stood at the door with Dori’s Halta and Bifur’s Glin. Old friend that she was, Nula did not need to ask what was on Dís’ mind. Halta and Glin were not so well-acquainted, but they were clever. Their eyes were lit with sympathy.

‘Come,’ Nula said gently, ‘it does you no good to sit in here with your thoughts.’

‘I am better company for myself than for anyone else right now,’ Dís argued, though she rose to her feet as she said it. Nula, though younger than Dís, was a mother through and through. You did not argue with her often, for there seemed to be little point. Somehow or other you always ended by doing what she wished.

‘We will not force you to talk,’ Halta promised. ‘Just to walk with us. Your people worry when they don’t see you.’

Dís nodded and gave herself a quick check in the mirror that hung near the door. It would not do to be seen abroad looking a state. That was what they had Kíli for.

As promised their walk was a quiet one. The path seemed ambling, with no clear destination in mind, but when they did come to a halt Dís knew she had underestimated her friends.

They stood before the long, long bridge that led to Thorin’s throne. Dís’ own, which was generally occupied by Fíli when they were all at home, stood a step or two below it. Thorin had wished to have them equal but Balin and Dís would not hear of it. When Thorin was here he must be the highest power and there should be no mistake about it.

It was not the thrones she had been brought to see, however. It was the bridge, or what was happening on that bridge. It was the memory of her boys, all of them, and yet another reminder of why she loved them so.

Craftsmen lined the way, some hurrying from place to place but most still and intent upon their work. Each had their own task this day, a name that needed to be carved in place, and they did their job with all the gravity it deserved.

It had been Fíli’s idea, but Kíli had been the one to give him the push to mention it to Thorin. There were names Dís’ mother, and Dís herself, had sworn to their people would be remembered. They had sworn to give them to the stone, Fíli had said, and what better way to do that than to carve them somewhere within Erebor, where they could be seen and remembered.

The location, though. That was all Thorin.

‘On the path to the throne,’ he had said firmly, not faltering even when they had all looked at him as if he was mad. ‘They should be remembered with all honour and as Mother intended that they should be. We put them before the throne, so that we remember every time we approach it and so will everyone else. Our kingdom was built upon their sacrifices, they deserve more than a wall somewhere that people will walk by without truly seeing.’

So it was being done. The project was taking years, the names painstakingly added one by one at Dís’ instruction, each drawn from the book her mother had kept, then passed to her, then she to Kíli.

Nula was a very clever woman. For the first time in days, Dís felt like smiling.

***

‘We should be doing something,’ Alnir said suddenly as they all sat in the dungeons the day after Frodo’s trial. The messengers had been dispatched to Lothlórien and Fíli knew that aid was coming. He just wasn’t feeling very patient. Although he had been much relieved to learn that Bofur had, in a fit of extreme dwarfishness, brought a small chest of treasure with him and then buried it in Lothlórien ‘just in case he needed it later’. So at least they had been able to ask for that as well as borrowing money.

Uncle would murder him anyway, for letting Frodo get mixed up in this mess, but owing money went against Fíli’s nature so he was trying to look on the bright side.

‘What would you have us do?’ Legolas asked Alnir. ‘We were meant to be taking our time until the armies were ready anyway. We are as well off here as anywhere else.’

‘ _You_ were meant to be waiting,’ Alnir disagreed. ‘ _We_ were meant to be convincing Thengel to help us against Saruman. Currently I would say our success has been non-existent. Gandalf is still missing and Treebeard should be waiting for us to join him. Yet here we are. Doing nothing.’

No one spoke immediately. They had not forgotten about Gandalf and Saruman, of course, but they had been forced to push it all to one side in the face of more urgent problems. Now the problem loomed large again.

‘Sigrid could talk to Théoden…’ Kíli suggested gingerly.

‘NO!’ Sigrid and Bofur uttered simultaneously, turning to look at each other in surprise. Bofur shook his head with surprising firmness and Sigrid answered Kíli aloud.

‘Trying to convince Thengel’s son to do something without his permission is not going to help anything at all,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides, I am not using a case of hero-worship to put a young lad in danger. Imagine how Da would have reacted if Dwalin had taken Bain off into a fight without his permission.’

Kíli did, winced and held his hands up in gesture of surrender.

‘Fair enough, bad idea, moving on,’ he said quickly.

‘What are you suggesting, lad?’ Bofur asked Alnir intently. ‘You’ve been thinking about it, that much is clear.’

‘Thengel won’t listen to me,’ Alnir asserted in a tone of utter frustration. ‘I’ve tried, but you all heard how that went. He said we could discuss it after the trial was done. I think it needs to be someone else doing the talking.’

‘Such as?’ Fíli queried.

‘Bilbo always manages to make anything seem logical somehow,’ Alnir responded. ‘Perhaps he would succeed where I failed.’

‘It is not exactly a failure, Alnir,’ Legolas chided. ‘Possibly, your timing was not as good as it could have been.’

‘We’re in a rush,’ Alnir said with a roll of his eyes.

‘Thengel is not,’ Fíli told him. ‘Not with regard to Saruman, anyway.’

‘He cannot truly believe that we talk nonsense on this subject, though,’ Bilbo opined. ‘Now that he knows the truth about our purpose what reason can he have for refusing to even consider the idea?’

‘Pride,’ a light voice answered from the doorway. All heads snapped around to stare at their visitor.

‘You move as quietly as a hobbit, my lady,’ Bilbo said respectfully. Morwen smiled at the clear compliment.

‘I try,’ she said sincerely. ‘You would be truly amazed at the things people will say about their monarchs when they think they go unheard.’ Then she paused a moment and laughed. ‘Or perhaps you would not,’ she amended. Fíli instinctively smiled in return. Then Morwen sobered.

‘My lord is not unaware of the worrying nature of your news, my lords, my lady,’ she assured them. ‘Nor did he mean to be as dismissive as he seemed, if I am correct. I usually am, when it comes to my husband. Try speaking to him again in the morning. I will… raise the issue later this evening. Between us I am sure we can get somewhere.’

‘You believe us?’ Alnir asked her with interest.

‘I do not wish to,’ Morwen responded. ‘As we told you, Saruman has been a good friend to us. Yet I am not unaware that good friends can sometimes change. These orc and Dunlending attacks worry me. They worry my lord. I would rather see you proven wrong than assume that you are and rue the assumption.’

‘You have our thanks,’ Fíli told her sincerely. Morwen gave a surprisingly unladylike shrug.

‘A queen is another set of eyes and ears for her king,’ she said serenely. ‘Sometimes that means guiding his own where they are needed most. I do what I can. None of which,’ she continued, ‘is what I came here for. Master Frodo, these are for you.’

So saying she rapped sharply on the edge of the door and a servant appeared holding thick blankets and a good pillow. Morwen herself unlocked the door of his cell and the servant placed them inside.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ Frodo said quietly, a look of pure gratitude on his face. Morwen smiled and laid a hand upon the top of his head before she stepped away and locked the door once more.

‘They are not only from me,’ she told Frodo gently. ‘Mistress Etha was concerned that you would be cold. There is little heat so far beneath the hall.’

With that, and another smile, she left them.

Frodo looked as if he was not quite sure what to do with such news. Fíli could appreciate the feeling. To find that the wife of the man you killed was a good enough person to forgive and worry about you was a mixed blessing indeed.

***

So focused had Legolas originally been on Frodo’s predicament that he had barely had a moment to consider Gandalf’s possible plight. Yet since Alnir had raised it again the night before he had felt frustration thrumming beneath his skin. They should not be here, not if Gandalf needed help. What was the point of thousands of years of training if you could not go to the aid of your friends when they were in danger? Legolas refused to contemplate the possibility that Gandalf might be far beyond their help, at least in his own mind. He would believe it when he had proof before him.

He was greatly relieved, therefore, when Thengel once again invited them to break their fast with his family, not long after they had woken and gone to check on Frodo. Frodo had sent them off with a determined glint in his eye and this time even Bilbo had conceded. Now they entered to a small smile of reassurance from Lady Morwen. Clearly she thought their chances had improved, which was heartening.

Nothing was said at the table, of course. Quite apart from the fact that servants moved in and out, serving fresh food or removing cleared plates, there were also Thengel’s young children gathered around. They were both too innocent to hear such discussions and far too loud to allow much discussion at all.

‘Master Bofur, juggle again!’ one of the youngest demanded.

‘Théodwyn,’ her older sister objected immediately. ‘They are guests at a meal, not entertainers. Eat your breakfast and leave Master Bofur alone.’

‘It’s alright, lass,’ Bofur assured her. ‘I’ve ten nieces and nephews all told, as well as a few adopted ones for good measure. I’m no stranger to being put to work.’ With that he grabbed a few seemingly random items off the table and set them flying into the air one by one. Once he had a good rhythm going he started throwing in a few tricks that made the little ones cry out in delight. After a minute or two Bofur ended by flicking the knife he had picked up in Sigrid’s direction. Legolas tensed, ready to move, as it flew towards Sigrid’s head as she was sat talking to Lady Morwen.

Sigrid simply sighed and reached backwards, plucking it out of the air.

‘If I tell Tilda you did that again she will not speak to you for weeks,’ Sigrid said without turning. Bofur’s dismayed face was truly comical and Legolas laughed involuntarily. When Sigrid did face him Bofur had instead turned pleading eyes on her. She shook her head.

‘Oh, just eat your breakfast, you idiot,’ she commanded, then went back to her conversation.

Meanwhile Fíli and Kíli were entertaining Théoden and one of the older girls with tales of the quest to Erebor, with Bilbo contributing a few corrections of his own.

‘I did not say any such thing,’ Bilbo objected more loudly than he intended as Legolas turned his attention to them. ‘Smaug was a dragon and I am not an idiot. You do not challenge a dragon when you are standing atop him unless you are an idiot!’

‘Bilbo, will you stop ruining the story?’ Kíli tossed back. ‘Stories are meant to make people sound more heroic than they actually are. What would be the point otherwise? No one wants to know that my legs were shaking when I shot at Smaug.’

Théoden did not seem to agree.

‘ _Were_ they?’ he asked with fascination. Kíli chuckled.

‘I thought I was going to have to kneel down at one point,’ he informed Théoden honestly. ‘I was shaking so hard standing up I wasn’t sure the arrow would fly true.’

‘It did not show in the shot,’ Legolas countered, catching Théoden’s eyes. ‘He is a terrible braggart sometimes,’ he told Théoden, pointing at Kíli, ‘but he is as good an archer as I’ve ever seen.’

Kíli looked ridiculously pleased at the compliment. Fíli closed his eyes briefly.

‘Did you have to say that?’ he asked Legolas plaintively. ‘He will be unbearable for days.’

‘Ha!’ Kíli responded. ‘Where were you when we were killing Smaug, anyway?’

‘Uh, in the Woodland Realm, where _you_ agreed I would be,’ was Fíli’s pointed answer. ‘Did _you_ want to deal with the Master?’

The face Kíli pulled was an eloquent response.

‘Exactly,’ Fíli said with a nod. ‘Now be a good boy and shut up for a bit. Bilbo’s much better at telling stories than you are anyway.’

So, somehow, Bilbo found himself telling the tale of Smaug’s slaying, the truthful version, to a room full of Rohan’s royalty. A number of the servants paused in their duties. A few moments later others appeared in the doorway. Lady Morwen pretended she did not notice.

Breakfast lasted a little longer than they intended, but at least everyone finished it in a good mood. The children begged to be told the tale of the Battle of the East that evening and it was clear that Théoden wished to add his voice to the chorus but felt it beneath his nearly-adult dignity.

‘We would be glad to hear it, Master Bilbo,’ Lady Morwen added when she had shushed her brood. Bilbo looked uncomfortable.

‘I fear I cannot, my lady,’ he said shortly. Unfortunately, the children were clearly upset.

‘But why not?’ Oldwyn demanded, forgetting her own dignity for a moment. Bilbo squirmed slightly and did not answer. That was when Legolas realised the problem.

‘I am afraid Bilbo was not able to be present at the battle,’ he interjected, which seemed like a much better idea than explaining that Bilbo was planning to spend the evening in the dungeons with his nephew and therefore would not be having dinner with the royal family. ‘He has only heard it recounted himself. The rest of us will do our best to stand in his stead, however.’

Bilbo threw him a grateful look and Legolas gave a brief nod.

‘Fíli and Kíli are actually very good storytellers,’ Bilbo assured the children, ‘as long as someone is there to stop them exaggerating too much. Part of Kíli’s job as Prince of Erebor is to tell stories. They will be able to tell you all about it.’

Satisfied, the children rose and left. Lady Morwen look embarrassed and opened her mouth to apologise, but Bilbo held up his hand kindly.

‘It is an awkward situation we find ourselves in,’ he offered. ‘No harm was done.’

Lady Morwen look relieved and the subject was dropped.

***

‘Thengel-King, we had hoped to speak with you on a more serious subject,’ Bilbo ventured in the quiet that had settled.

‘More serious than the fight to kill a dragon or the battle that broke the orcs’ strength in the east?’ Thengel said, his voice almost teasing. Legolas suppressed a jolt of surprise. ‘That must be a dire topic indeed.’

He watched them all for a moment and then gave the faintest of smiles.

‘I am aware that I have a number of faults in your eyes,’ he told his guests, ‘but I hope you will acquit me of stupidity. Even,’ he added, looking at Lady Morwen affectionately, ‘if my lady wife will not.’

Lady Morwen appeared rueful and Legolas realised that she had perhaps not been as subtle as she had hoped.

‘I confess, my lords, my lady, he had a great deal of fun last night,’ she told them wryly. ‘I assure you he will not go unpunished, but for now I must admit myself not so clever as I thought. My lord had meant to speak with you today anyway, which he finally told me after nearly an hour of pretending to be an oblivious fool.’

‘That happens to us all the time,’ Kíli assured her. ‘My uncle and our Guard Captain both like playing dumb and then laughing at us afterwards.’

‘I am in good company in my flaws then,’ Thengel stated contentedly.

‘I would not call Dwalin good company myself,’ Bilbo muttered, an undertone of anger in his voice. Legolas saw Fíli and Kíli glance quickly at Bilbo and then look away before they were caught. They needn’t have worried, however. Bilbo was more than capable of keeping focus on what needed to be done.

‘We are all on the same topic, at least,’ he said calmly, looking Thengel in the eye. ‘You have heard some of our companions’ concerns about Saruman, Thengel-King. Can you believe us enough to act on them?’

‘I cannot say that I believe you are correct in your conclusions,’ Thengel stated, ‘but I do believe that something very strange is going on in my kingdom all of a sudden and that it needs investigating. I am willing to send a small party out to scout, at least. If Saruman is the source of the trouble, as you believe, they will be able to tell me so when they have been nearer to Isengard. If he is not, then he will be able to give us his counsel or perhaps explain what the cause of the sudden activity is. I hope that meets with your approval?’

It was not actually a question and Legolas did not make the mistake of believing that it was. Thengel had made his course of action clear and they could accede or sort themselves out. Given that they were nowhere close to having enough power to take on Saruman and his army of home-grown orcs, acceding was their only option.

‘We would go with your soldiers if you would allow it, my lord,’ Sigrid said politely. ‘Gandalf is our friend and we truly believe he is in great danger. If we are wrong I would be glad to see it, but I would like to do so with my own eyes.’

‘I can see no reason why you should not,’ Thengel agreed easily. ‘Will it be all of you?’

‘Not Bilbo,’ several voices spoke. Even as they did so Bilbo said, ‘I think I will stay here, thank you.’

Bilbo seemed to consider being offended for a moment, then decided against it.

‘I am not born to be a warrior,’ he informed Thengel calmly. ‘I will remain with my nephew.’

‘Aye, and keep that thing as far away from any more orcs as possible,’ Bofur agreed. ‘Whilst conveniently getting my two away from it. Sounds like a plan to me.’

Legolas resisted the urge to laugh at Alnir’s pulled face. Apparently being lumped together with Sigrid as ‘my two’ did not sit well with him.

‘Fíli and I should remain here as well,’ Kíli chipped in. ‘We are sworn to Bilbo in this and heading off towards Isengard would defeat the purpose of that slightly.’

Now Legolas was torn. He, too, was sworn to Bilbo. He was also almost itching for the chance to kill orcs. His restlessness only grew at the idea of being left behind.

‘Go with them,’ Bilbo commanded, making Legolas start. ‘They’ll be safer with you there and even I can tell that being cooped up is not agreeing with you.’

He was right, Legolas knew. Too many years trapped inside his father’s halls as their forest grew dark, he suspected. Legolas preferred the open air when he could get it.

‘When do we leave?’ Alnir questioned. Thengel considered for a moment.

‘The morning,’ he decided. ‘Isengard is no short ride and my men will need to be well-provisioned. As you will, I imagine.’

From there the discussion moved on to practicalities and Fíli and Kíli took over. They were more used to considering the needs of those who could not live off one lembas for several days, so Legolas left them to it. He was just happy to have a task in sight once more.

***

They rode out the next morning, with only one surprise before they left. When they assembled at the gate Thengel’s men were accompanied by Théoden and Odhrán, the gate-guard Théoden had been on duty with when they arrived. Sigrid deliberately kept her face from showing her surprise. Did Thengel have so little faith in their judgement that he would send his sixteen-year-old son with them and never consider the danger?

‘It is our way,’ a low voice informed her as these thoughts passed through her head. She turned to see that Odhrán was stood beside her. ‘The lad’s been on guard duty for months and we’ve drilled him well. Now it’s time to see how he handles himself in the saddle when there’s a possibility of battle. We’re a kingdom of fighters. The Prince needs to be one if he is going to rule.’

‘Dale is not so different,’ Sigrid responded, liking Odhrán’s easy manner and the way he kept his eyes on Théoden as the lad tacked up and checked his saddlebags. ‘Ours would probably be a little older though. Eighteen is usually the youngest my brother and I will accept.’

Odhrán nodded his understanding.

‘It’s a hard life in Rohan,’ he said. ‘Only one city, lots of folk out there without walls to shield them. We learn to fight young, then we won’t be caught off guard when trouble comes. No harm in letting them grow a little more before you take them on, though. Not everyone can have a guard assigned to them when they ride out the first time.’

‘Thengel trusts you a great deal,’ Sigrid stated, though she could hear the note of curiosity in her voice.

‘He has no reason to do otherwise,’ Odhrán replied. ‘I’ve been with him since he was an impetuous Prince flying off into exile. Kept him alive a time or two, and I’ll do the same with his son.’

Yes, Sigrid thought, a good man. She was glad he would be with them.

Their first few days of riding were uneventful and broken only by their meals and their nightly rest. The horses that Sigrid and her friends had been given were well-trained and even Bofur had no trouble with them, despite being a little too short for his horse. The Rohirrim were not used to mounting dwarves and the horse-master had apologised profusely. Bofur had simply laughed it off, as he did, and told the man that any dwarf who travelled with men got used to their mounts being a bit bigger. Otherwise they were likely to be left behind.

Théoden was clearly disappointed by the monotony, but he had also clearly been well taught and knew better than to complain. It was a lesson Sigrid had been taught by Tauriel and Legolas, that wishing for trouble just for some excitement was a dangerous thing to do.

 _Let trouble find you_ , Tauriel had chided her when she complained as a young woman. _If you go looking for it you almost always bite off more than you can chew and then someone could get hurt trying to rescue you_.

So they travelled onward, at a pace fast enough to eat up the ground and not so fast that the horses would founder. Alnir, Bofur and a number of the Rohirrim broke the boredom with tales and jests, some of them more offensive than others. Théoden thought so, at least.

‘They should not say such things in front of you,’ he said to Sigrid on the third day as he drew his horse up beside her. He was giving Bofur and one of his father’s Riders baleful looks and Sigrid had to agree that they were getting a little out of hand. Some of those tales really weren’t fit for Théoden’s ears, even if he was nearly an adult. Which the shocked look on his face made clear.

‘They know I have heard worse, or at least Bofur does,’ she told Théoden, smiling kindly. She did not want to patronise the boy, Valar knew how much lads his age hated that, but he was sweet in his concern. ‘I have fought alongside men since I was not much older than you, Théoden, and that was a long time ago. There’s little I have not heard at this point. However, I agree that they have now passed the bounds of decency.’

‘Father would not approve,’ was Théoden’s response. Sigrid had to admit that her own would not either. She and Bain had long since decided to give him a better opinion of their soldiers’ manners than was necessarily truthful.

‘Gentlemen, we are not in a tavern,’ she called out to those ahead of them. ‘Perhaps we could save the talk of tavern wenches for a more appropriate time?’ Bofur turned to look behind him and caught sight of the displeasure on her face. Then he saw the Iglishmêk signs for ‘Really? In front of the Prince?' He winced.

‘Sorry, lass,’ he shouted to Sigrid’s position towards the back of their group. ‘I forgot.’

She gave him another stern glance, then waved her hand to dismiss the subject and Bofur turned back to his new companions.

‘How old are you?’ Théoden asked her then, before grimacing at his own question. No doubt he had been taught that asking a lady her age was rude. Princess Dís would have loved this one, Sigrid thought. He’d been well brought up, even if he slipped occasionally.

‘I am seven and thirty,’ she answered, smiling again to show she was not offended. ‘I began training when I was fourteen, when I suddenly became acquainted with a number of dwarves. Dwarven women are trained to fight as a matter of course and they could not believe we were not. I enjoyed it, did well at it and decided I would like to continue. I have helped my brother command Dale’s guard for nearly fifteen years now.’

‘I cannot imagine Oldwyn fighting,’ Théoden said wonderingly. Then he laughed suddenly. ‘Théodwyn maybe. She is a firebrand.’

‘Oh, I do not think she is that bad,’ Sigrid laughed in return. ‘A little excitable perhaps.’

‘You can say that because she has never attacked you for putting a frog in her bed!’

Sigrid laughed even harder. ‘What an unchivalrous thing to do!’ she told Théoden teasingly. ‘No wonder she attacked you. I would have done the same to Bain.’

‘You _did_ the same to Bain,’ Alnir pointed out as he abandoned the others to join them. ‘Although I don’t think it was a frog that was the problem.’

‘No it was not,’ Sigrid told him firmly, ‘and no I will not tell you what it was really about.’

‘Why not?’ Alnir questioned. ‘You always say that, but it can’t have been that embarrassing.’

‘Not for me, perhaps,’ Sigrid agreed. ‘I promised Bain I would not speak a word of it, though. He is still terrified Da will find out.’

Alnir whined, causing Théoden to let out a loud bark of laughter that he clearly regretted.

‘He hates not knowing things,’ Sigrid told Théoden. ‘He has since he was a child. The best revenge is always to refuse to tell him what is going on. Drives him mad.’

‘You are a horrible woman,’ Alnir huffed, quickly riding off again.

‘You are all very… different,’ Théoden said carefully a moment later.

‘All very strange, you mean?’ Sigrid responded. Théoden did not agree, but she knew he wanted to. ‘Too much time with dwarves and elves does that to a person.’

‘Slander and calumny,’ Legolas broke in, much to Sigrid’s surprise. He’d been so still for the last hour or two she’d rather thought he was asleep. ‘The Woodland Realm was quiet, peaceful and serious before you lot arrived and started stirring things up. You cannot lay this at our door.’

‘It is Gand…’ Sigrid began instinctively, meaning to copy Bilbo and Thorin’s favourite phrase. Then she remembered why they were riding out and her throat closed up. Legolas and Théoden understood immediately. They rode in silence for a long time after that.

***

On their fourth day they came across a small group of Dunlendings, fifteen or so in total, no more than a day and half’s ride from Isengard. The Dunlendings were armed, but also battered and somewhat aimless. The fight barely lasted a few minutes and soon they were piling the bodies for burning.

‘Part of a larger group originally,’ was Odhrán’s opinion and the leader of the Riders agreed.

‘There are a few villages not far from here,’ said another of the men. ‘I grew up in one of them. They’re used to raids and almost everyone knows how to wield some kind of weapon, even if it’s just a hoe or a scythe. Might be they met more resistance than they expected.’

It seemed the likeliest explanation and they rode onward not long after. Théoden had acquitted himself well in the battle and Odhrán rode near to him for a time giving tips, and also a little praise if Théoden’s blush was any clue.

Sigrid wished that Frodo’s first real experience of battle had been like this. Then she pushed the thought away. Wishing would change nothing.

***

Perhaps they had not been as careful in the wake of their victory. Perhaps the men on watch had not been as alert.

Or perhaps Saruman’s orcs were more cunning than most of their race.

In the dead of night, asleep and unwary, Sigrid and her party were ambushed.

That they had any warning at all was thanks to Bofur’s habit of sleeping with one hand pressed to nearest bit of stone, if there was any. The noise of boots could be muffled by cloth, which the orcs had counted on, but nothing masked their presence from the very earth itself. Bofur had tried over the years to explain to Sigrid what it was like to talk to the stone and she thought she understood as well as anyone could. Bofur would have asked the stone to alert him to anything wrong around them and orcs were as wrong as it came. He had told her that nothing quite compared to being awakened by the jarring mental cry of land that was being pounded by orcish feet.

And so Bofur was moving before he was fully awake, a roar of anger not entirely his own on his lips, frightening the life out of Sigrid and most of their companions. Training held, her daggers were in her hands, but her heart was stuttering with terror. The first orc that swung at her slashed a cut open on her throat and only Legolas’ intervention prevented the wound being much worse. It woke her up properly, though, and she met the next orc with all the skill she had acquired.

Dropping to her knee as Fíli had a week or so before, Sigrid brought herself below her attacker and gutted it. The orc had not yet hit the floor when she was on to the next, using sound to guide her in the dark of night. She wished for dwarven eyesight, but knew that for now her ears would have to be enough. The orcs were a foul bunch, so her nose was no bad tool either.

Hearing heavy breathing before her, coupled with a stench that could only mean orc, Sigrid moved forwards and gave an experimental slash to try and measure her opponent’s position. The dagger bit into an arm, but not the raised sword arm, and so she knew it was facing her. Using one weapon to catch the blade which whistled through the air, Sigrid struck out again with the other, landing another hit. Nothing fatal, but finally her eyes were adjusting a little to the dark.

The orc was big, if not as big as the one who had led Saruman’s forces at Fangorn, and it was not yet seriously injured. Dark did not bother orcs, they could see well enough, and apparently this one had noticed that its opponent was female. When the orc locked blades with her its free hand moved to grope at her chest, the look on its face making it clear that this was designed to make her feel weak, to remind her of what could happen if she did not win. Sigrid was almost glad. Now she wasn’t scared at all. Now she furious.

With no compunction about fairness she stepped closer to the orc, wondering what exactly it thought she was doing that would cause it to leer in that manner, then stabbed one dagger directly at its crotch.

The expression on its face as it fell, dim though it was, made her feel a lot better.

Around her she could hear and see other battles taking place. The Rohirrim were good soldiers, but they were also soldiers taken off guard and at a disadvantage. The thought reminded her of Théoden, who had slept not too far from her, and she tried to find him even as she responded to another orc’s attack. This one was slow, thank goodness, and the slightly stunned expression it wore suggested it had already fought another of her companions. Sigrid finished it off with a quick slash to its throat and then made for Théoden, standing back to back with Odhrán but facing five orcs with only a dagger and shield. What had become of his sword Sigrid did not know.

Even without the sword Théoden’s training shone through. He used the shield well, according to Sigrid’s small knowledge of such things, allowing it to take the brunt of an orc’s swing while he concentrated on attacking with his own weapon. Unfortunately shields were not meant to be combined with daggers. Théoden’s reach was too short like that and the orcs who faced him were battering his shield relentlessly, most likely sending his arm numb, but keeping well out of reach. Odhrán gave what help he could but they were outnumbered.

Sigrid broke into a run, hoping fervently she would not fall over anything, and made for the Prince. The orcs were so focused on their victim that they did not sense her coming and the first she reached for was easily pulled back with one arm around its chest, before she slit its throat with her other hand. The second was more alert, but as it turned to face her Théoden managed to shove the third orc attacking him back a way, step forward and gut-wound Sigrid’s own opponent. The third they faced together as Odhrán, freed from concern for his Prince, made fairly short work of the remaining two.

It was at this point that Sigrid recognised a sound that had been soaring above the battle for the last few minutes. Recognised it because it was coming from Théoden as well. The Rohirrim were whistling, each in a different pitch and rhythm. Following Théoden’s gaze Sigrid saw the Rohirrim horses, scared at first by the sudden attack, returning to their masters. Even as she watched one bucked angrily and caved in the chest of the orc that had tried to grab it. Others charged forwards to their riders, trampling unwary orcs in their path.

They were weapons in a way Sigrid had barely ever thought of and suddenly she knew exactly why the Riders of Rohan had a fearsome reputation.

They would not save Sigrid’s party though. More orcs seemed to be arriving every moment and each one cut down seemed to bring another enemy to the fore. Soon Sigrid understood the Rohirrim’s plan. They called their horses to them not so they could fight, but so that they could flee.

Sigrid feared for a moment, when Théoden’s mount joined him and the lad swung up into the saddle, that she would be left behind. Then Odhrán caught her arm and, with his help, Sigrid was able to join him ahorse. Her own steed was across the battlefield, determinedly stamping an orc into the ground and, as Sigrid watched, Legolas leapt onto the mare’s back and guided her away from the fight. A number of the Rohirrim were already riding away, perhaps the injured, while others rode forward to pull their comrades up behind them.

Relief flooded her as she saw that almost all of their party were now safe, Alnir riding double with another Rohirrim as Sigrid was. It was only when Sigrid searched for Bofur, as Odhrán kicked their mount to a gallop, that she knew how wrong she had been.

Bofur was not safe. Clearly injured, but still fighting, he was slung over the shoulder of the largest orc in the party. His mattock was nowhere to be seen and Sigrid thought he seemed disorientated, as if he had taken a hit to the head.

Her heart screamed at her to jump down and go after him, to fight her way to him and save him. Her head told her there was nothing she could do. Yet another group of orcs were coming to join their fellows, running after the Rohirrim even as they rode away.

If Sigrid jumped now she would most likely break something and be of no use. If she asked Odhrán to slow the horse, he might be overtaken. Even if he was not, if she tried to go back Alnir would follow her, probably Legolas and some of the Rohirrim as well. They would be overwhelmed and slaughtered.

One dwarf, or their other companions?

Her heart or her head?

Her head won.

Her heart shattered.

They rode away.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An orc tries to intimidate Sigrid during a fight by groping at her. It lasts very briefly and the orc is almost immediately killed, but the implication that something worse could happen is there.


	29. White Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruman may yet regret his actions as much as the Fellowship do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to ISeeFire, as always, for making sense out of my attempts at writing this chapter. If anyone hasn't read her work and likes Fem!Bilbo, or dwobbits, or dragons, go on over and have a look :D I claim responsibility for both the dragons and the dwobbits!!

Chapter Twenty-Eight: White Lies

His first thought upon coming round was ‘oh bugger, that hurts!’

His second thought was ‘please say they got away’.

His third was ‘oh, he’s going to regret this’.

Bofur felt this probably said good things about his priorities. The fact that the current whereabouts of his mattock only came fourth was really quite impressive. After all he was going to need a weapon fairly soon. Preferably to murder the wizard.

Though he had clearly lost consciousness at some point Bofur could remember being dragged through the space surrounding Isengard and seeing a frightening number of orcs scattered around. Still more, he assumed, were below ground; several of the orcs he had seen were dragging wood to openings in the ground and throwing these down below. The orc carrying Bofur had met another of its kind at the base of Orthanc and had been given orders to ‘put him on the roof with the other one’. After that Bofur remembered very little. He had only barely held onto consciousness on the way to Isengard and apparently it had deserted him at that point. The orc that had attacked him had been wielding a large hammer and even Bofur’s, admittedly thick, skull could not protect him entirely. He felt as if the inside of his head was going to explode.

He was lucky that the orc had been nowhere near Ori or Dwalin’s level of skill, actually. Otherwise he’d most likely be dead.

‘You took your time,’ a familiar voice said as Bofur awoke. Had his head hurt less he would have rolled his eyes.

‘If you’re imagining me as the rescue party you’re going to be disappointed,’ Bofur informed Gandalf in a drawn voice as he pulled himself upright. ‘Mahal’s balls, where’s Legolas when you need him?’ He clutched at his head as a noise like the ringing of Erebor’s main forge started up in his head again.

‘Hopefully doing something useful rather than allowing himself to be captured,’ Gandalf said snippily. Bofur allowed himself a glare at the irritating wizard.

‘You got yourself captured first, oh great wielder of magic,’ he pointed out, ‘and you don’t seem to have escaped. So jump down off that mountaintop you’ve put yourself on and help a dwarf out. If you could heal Bilbo after the goblins you must be able to do something about this headache.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ Gandalf replied, not sounding particularly sorry. ‘Saving all of you from the orcs that were about to overwhelm you was rather draining. I am not currently at my best.’

‘You mean you haven’t got any magic left?’ Bofur asked incredulously.

‘If you are going to be crude about it, as you no doubt will be given that it is you; yes, Bofur, that is exactly what I mean!’ Gandalf retorted.

Bofur started swearing. Several minutes later, having exhausted his repertoire, he stopped. Eyes closed to try and reduce the pain in his head, or at least the brightness of the light, he rested his head gently against one of the spikes sticking up from Orthanc’s high platform. Stupid non-dwarven architecture. What was wrong with a good wide pillar?

‘Feel better?’ Gandalf asked.

‘Not really, no,’ was Bofur’s answer. The swearing might have relieved a little frustration, but it had also given him time to remember his last view of his companions. They had been attempting to make their escape, but they were also being chased by an apparently endless supply of orcs. The thought made his stomach churn. His friends, his _lass_. What if they didn’t make it? What if…. He forced himself to stop thinking about it. The headache brought enough nausea with it as it was and there was nothing he could do until he freed himself.

And Gandalf.

Possibly they’d be annoyed if he left the wizard behind.

‘So, Saruman’s up to no good then?’ Bofur asked, just to check.

‘Either collaborating with Sauron to get the ring back to him or trying to get the ring for himself,’ Gandalf confirmed. ‘I have yet to determine which. It rather depends on whether you believe he is lying to Sauron or not.’

‘Sauron?’ Bofur queried disbelievingly. ‘Has he lost his mind?’

‘Yes, Bofur,’ Gandalf said, voice sad all of a sudden. ‘I rather believe he has.’

The tone caught Bofur and he opened his eyes once more. Gandalf looked drawn and… old. The grey of his beard and clothing seemed to have seeped into the rest of him. Despite his normal grumbling he was clearly unwell and, apparently, deeply upset.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bofur said softly, allowing his expression to be serious for a moment. He tried not to be serious when situations were grim, but some griefs had to be respected.

‘As am I,’ Gandalf responded in a similar tone. ‘He was a great man once. This, this goes against everything we were sent to do. I do not understand how he came to lose his way so thoroughly, but he is Saruman the White no longer.’

After a moment of quiet Gandalf shook himself and sat straighter, though he winced as he did so.

‘What are our chances of rescue?’ he questioned Bofur intently, once again the great thinker and planner Bofur knew.

‘Depends,’ Bofur forced himself to say. ‘Sigrid, Alnir and Legolas were with me, along with a group of Rohirrim. We managed to convince Thengel to at least look into the possibility that Saruman was setting orcs out upon the world. We were ambushed last night; the orcs just kept coming so the others got up on the horses and fled. I would have gone with them but some orcish whoreson came right at me and knocked me almost senseless.’

‘One would have thought it impossible,’ Gandalf murmured, ‘to knock out what there was so little of to begin with.’

‘Been said by people I know and love better than you,’ Bofur responded, unperturbed. He heard something of the sort almost every day. His skin was thick enough to take it. ‘Anyway, if they make it back to Edoras in one piece rescue should come fairly quickly. If they don’t, it’ll probably still come; we had Thengel’s lad with us. It might not be quite so quick though.’

Gandalf muttered something nearly inaudible. Bofur didn’t bother trying to interpret it. When the wizard was ready to talk to him again he would. After a few moments Gandalf was still grumbling, so Bofur closed his eyes again and tried to think of things that might distract him from his headache.

***

If he was trying to avoid further aches then Sigrid probably wasn’t the best topic to choose, given that she was the source of heartache at the best of times, but she was the one which came most easily to mind.

She put on a good act, his lass, almost as good as his own, but she wasn’t quite the hardened warrior she liked to portray. Well not in all respects. She was damn good at fighting by anybody’s reckoning; she’d trained hard for it and still did and it showed. She was a fine leader as well, especially good with the young lads who were just starting out, most made up of two parts pride and two parts foolishness. Sigrid had been treating Théoden much as she did those lads, taking them seriously and guiding them as gently as she could. It was far from Dwalin’s gruff ‘hit them with Grasper and Keeper until they learn to pay attention’ approach, but in Bofur’s mind it was no less effective.

It did make him feel a little stupid for having reacted so abruptly to Kíli’s silly suggestion, but he told himself that it would soon be forgotten and no one would know the reason why in any case.

No, it wasn’t Sigrid’s martial skill which worried Bofur. What worried him was how soft her heart still was under all that competence. She yet cried for every man she lost, not openly but in the privacy of her rooms. After the first few times, when she had been so distraught that Bard had considered forbidding her from continuing in Dale’s guard, Bofur had instructed Bain firmly that he was to send for Bofur whenever something like that happened. Bofur didn’t lead men into battle but his gift for the stone had made him the obvious choice to lead mining teams since he was fairly young. He’d lost men to cave-ins, bad tunnels, sheer bloody bad luck even. He’d sat with his lass through her tears and her guilt and her grief and slowly, carefully tried to guide her to a place where she could accept that sometimes there was nothing that could have been done. Sometimes a person’s time was just up.

Thankfully it wasn’t a situation that occurred often. Dale had been mostly peaceful since Erebor was retaken and Bain and Sigrid were as careful with their men as they could be. Some losses were inevitable, though, and it was soon understood among Bofur’s workers that if a message came from Dale then it was to be brought to him _immediately_ , he would be leaving as soon as he could and they were to take their instructions from his cousin until he returned.

It wasn’t enough to make up for all he wished to give Sigrid and could not, but it eased Bofur’s heart to be able to comfort her when she was grieving. He hoped that he could claim even a little credit for helping her to bear the weight of the losses Dale had suffered.

Would it be enough now he was the one who might be lost to her?

Bofur did not know, and he hated himself for the small part of him which hoped she would grieve more for him than she did for others. Some of the men she had lost had been friends, just as he was. Why should he be more important, in the end? Only because he loved her, but that she did not know and likely never would.

He hoped she would not. It would hurt her to know that she hurt him when she leant against Alnir so casually, as if it was as natural as breathing. Or to know that he wished, sometimes, that she would not turn quite so easily to Alnir when she was hurt over something Bofur did not understand and Sigrid chose not to explain to him.

Bofur put on a good show when he needed to. He needed only to smile, and be cheerful, and laugh loudly, and joke louder still about anything and everything, and few thought to look any deeper than that. Even the ones who knew him best.

Well, that was no great problem in the end. As long as Alnir took care of her as well as he ought, and did not let her shake herself apart fretting over what she could not have helped, Bofur could take care of himself. There was always something around to be amused by. Even if it was just the grumblings of a wizard who was displeased at finding himself forgotten and was now demanding Bofur’s full attention.

***

‘If we cannot rely on help coming quickly, then we will need to find our own way out,’ Gandalf stated, apparently having decided that Bofur was necessary to the conversation once more. Bofur was more than content to be distracted.

‘Has Saruman been threatening to kill us?’ Bofur asked. ‘Well, you? I don’t suppose he’s thought much about me yet.’

‘He has not,’ Gandalf answered, brows drawing together. ‘He has mentioned “other plans” several times, but what those might be I have no idea. Although I suspect he sees you as a good way to get Fíli and Kíli to come to Isengard, at least. He is quite convinced that one of them has the ring. I doubt he will try to kill you until he has them.’

‘Pity,’ Bofur mused. ‘Never mind, I’m sure I can change his mind quick enough. In the meantime, we’d best stay put.’

‘Stay put?’ Gandalf said. Had he not been a wizard, and therefore capable of turning Bofur into something truly unnatural, Bofur would have described his tone as bewildered and his expression as gaping.

‘Yes,’ Bofur answered, deciding to explain slowly in case the wizard’s brain had been addled by all that magic he’d used. ‘You haven’t a jot of magic in you, you haven’t got your pretty stick to help you and you don’t have an army hiding anywhere that I know of. So obviously we need to stay here.’

‘I may not have my magic at full strength,’ Gandalf snapped, fudging some of the more relevant details in Bofur’s opinion. Remove ‘at full strength’ and you’d be closer to the truth, ‘but I am yet a match for Saruman physically and you are not entirely useless. There is no reason we cannot escape ourselves.’

‘Except for the orcish army just over there,’ Bofur replied when Gandalf finished, finger pointing over the edge of the platform they were on. Gandalf opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.

Then he borrowed a few of Bofur’s better Khuzdul phrases.

‘Not bad,’ Bofur told him when he’d finished. ‘Although that’s not how you pronounce _shirumund_.’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ Gandalf commanded, rubbing his hand over his face.

‘Are you alright?’ Bofur asked worriedly, true concern rising. Gandalf hadn’t just lost his magic all of a sudden, Bofur needed to remember that. His body had taken quite a beating.

‘There are important things going on elsewhere,’ Gandalf said irritably, ‘things that will shape the future of Middle Earth. I do not have _time_ to sit on top of Saruman’s Eru-damned tower waiting to be rescued!’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Bofur responded, trying to be reassuring. ‘We realised a little while back that we were moving too fast anyway. Thorin needs more time to go and get the army and travel to Dagorlad. Bilbo and the others were mostly planning to stay in Rohan until Frodo’s released and then get moving.’

‘ _Frodo?_ Released?’ Gandalf asked in a sharp tone that was almost a shout. Bofur paused, then settled his hat slightly more firmly on his head.

‘Right,’ he said slowly, bracing himself. ‘There might be a few things I need to tell you.

***

Sigrid couldn’t seem to stop shaking. They’d stopped to rest as soon as it was clear that the orcs had given up the pursuit, the horses so tired that pushing them any further would be madness. It was a wonder they’d not yet lost any Riders in this mess. Some luck must be clinging to them still.

It had abandoned Bofur completely, though, and that led to Alnir’s current problem.

As soon as they had stopped he’d been off his shared mount and moving to Sigrid. She’d slid off her horse and nearly brought them both to the ground when she failed to come to a stop. Only the fact that Legolas had moved even faster than Alnir kept them upright. Once they were steady Alnir had guided Sigrid away from the horses and their elven friend and nudged her until she sat on the floor, before wrapping his arms around her. She’d shaken almost continuously, though not a sound escaped her.

Now, over an hour later, she was still shaking.

Alnir didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t sleep like this and they all needed to rest.

‘What do I do?’ he asked her quietly, annoyed at the plaintive tone in his voice. This was not the time to be relying on Sigrid to look after him.

‘Nothing,’ she said, trying to steady her voice. ‘I’m alright. This is stupid but it will stop eventually.’

‘We can’t wait for eventually,’ Alnir told her.

‘I know,’ Sigrid answered. Then, her tone more determined, she added, ‘I need to get a grip on myself. The Riders must think I’m a complete fool. Can you go and get us something to eat?’

Alnir could do nothing but nod and do as she asked. As he approached the fire Théoden looked at him with worried eyes.

‘Is Lady Sigrid well?’ the lad asked with great concern. Alnir forced himself to be calmer. There was no point scaring the lad and Alnir didn’t particularly want to spill Sigrid’s secrets either, even by accident.

‘She is anxious,’ he replied. ‘We all are. Bofur has been our friend for many years and we don’t know what Saruman will do to him. Sigrid will be alright though. It is simply the shock that affects her at the moment.’

‘Will she be able to ride?’ one of the other Riders asked.

‘Of course,’ Alnir said, hoping it was the truth. ‘Sigrid will be fine.’ Perhaps if he said it often enough he would believe it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Legolas approaching Sigrid and Alnir hastily helped himself to two portions of whatever the Rohirrim had cooked, then nodded to Théoden and went back the way he’d come.

As he grew near to his friends he realised that they weren’t talking, simply sitting in silence. Sigrid leaned slightly against Legolas and forced a smile when she saw Alnir and the food. She did at least seem to be stilling, though she still shivered every so often.

‘I definitely need that,’ she told Alnir gratefully. ‘Now that we’ve stopped my stomach’s complaining like anything.’ She started eating quickly and they both followed her lead. It seemed an oddly mundane thing to be doing at a time like this but, like Sigrid, Alnir was suddenly realising how hungry he was.

Once they had finished, however, the same uncertain atmosphere fell over them again.

‘Sigrid, are you…’ Legolas began to ask. She put a hand on his arm and he stopped.

‘We need to get back to Edoras and get help so we can rescue him,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s what we must focus on. Anything else can wait until we know… well, until we know.’

Alnir was suspicious of this sudden calm, but they did need to be ready to travel again far too soon. Perhaps she was only pretending to be composed; if so, the best he could do was stay close and be ready to take care of her. Apparently Sigrid had the same idea.

‘Are the two of you alright?’ she questioned them. She watched Alnir closely and he realised he’d been caught out. Looking after Sigrid had been helping him to ignore how panicked he felt at the thought of losing Bofur. The dwarf was a thoughtless idiot sometimes, but he was also the one who had carved Alnir a little army of soldiers, some dwarven, some elven and some human, when he was a child and told Alnir that they’d always keep him safe. Alnir still had them. One of each had made the journey to Rohan with him.

Bofur was also the one who had turned up in Lake-town, the night Alnir’s father had died, and retrieved him from the inn he’d hidden in. Alnir hadn’t wanted to leave, of course. He’d been busy drinking away his grief and was in no mood to be interrupted. Bofur was implacable when he wanted to be, though, and stronger than he looked. Alnir had been out of the taproom and back in his own room before he knew it. Bofur had let him shout, let him break something, let him cry and waited until he was sober. Then he’d left the room and come back with Sigrid.

He couldn’t be dead. They needed him.

Legolas and Sigrid both reached hands towards him at the same time and somehow he found himself sitting on the floor between them, all three resting against each other. Legolas began to sing something gentle and sad that Alnir only understood snatches of. Sigrid sniffled and hid her head against Alnir’s shoulder, refusing to let anyone see the tears fall. When Legolas was done with that song he began another, this one threaded with hope instead. That felt right, Alnir decided. Sigrid was right. Everything else could wait until they knew.

***

‘Which of them has the ring, dwarf?’ Saruman demanded as soon as Bofur had been dragged down from the roof by two particularly foul-smelling orcs. Bofur resisted the urge to murder him where he stood. Orcs, he reminded himself. You can murder the cowardly, evil-lord-arse-licking wizard when there’s someone here to help kill all the orcs. That done, Bofur enacted the first part of his plan.

‘What ring?’ he asked in response, demeanour deliberately vague.

‘Do not think to fool me,’ Saruman retorted. ‘My orcs may have brought me a dwarf, as I commanded, but it was clearly not the right dwarf. Tell me which of your companions has the ring.’

‘Thorin’s ring?’ Bofur queried. ‘I did have it, but I think it’s in Edoras somewhere. No point bringing it all the way out here. Damn thing kept falling off all the time.’

‘You know of what I speak,’ Saruman snapped. ‘Do not think I will not kill you, dwarf. I am not a patient man.’

‘Well I knew _that_ ,’ Bofur told him. ‘A patient man wouldn’t be breeding orcs downstairs. Damn things are like rabbits, give them five years and you’d have had more than enough of the things anyway. Silly waste of time, if you ask me; now you’ll be drowning in them before you can blink.’

‘Be silent!’ Saruman shouted. Immediately Bofur’s mouth clamped shut. He mimed pinning it shut and winked at the white-robed wizard. Saruman bared his teeth in a parody of a smile.

‘Tell me what I wish to know,’ he said in a much smoother tone than he had used thus far, ‘and you could have riches beyond your imagining. All the wealth of Middle Earth at your command. I would see it done, all for the answer to this one question.’

Bofur started to laugh.

‘Lad, I’ve a thirteenth share in the biggest hoard of treasure I’ve ever heard of,’ he said as he chuckled. ‘What do I need more gold for? Besides, you couldn’t give me all the wealth in Middle Earth. Most of it’s sitting inside Erebor and your little toy army down there isn’t getting you into Thorin’s kingdom.’

Saruman looked for one moment as if he would dearly love to wring Bofur’s neck. Then, in a flash, the look was gone.

‘Power then,’ he said, voice cajoling. ‘You have seen some of what wizardry can do. There are forces in the world that could level mountains and they could be at your command. All that power to do whatever you wished…’

‘Right idiot I’d look,’ Bofur said after a few seconds, trying to ensure that he appeared as vapid as possible, ‘levelling my home and then having to find a new one. Besides Dís would rip an ugly great hole in my stomach for it and then where would I be?’

Saruman was not rattled exactly, but he was certainly unhappy. Bofur continued grinning happily.

‘You need not level the mountain,’ the wizard explained in a tone which made his opinion of Bofur’s intelligence perfectly clear. ‘Perhaps you would like to be king of it instead. I could see to that. A kingdom of your own, all its people answering to you and you alone, all its women at your disposal. Think of it.’

Bofur was thinking of it. He was thinking particularly of the one woman he did want and how utterly murderous he would be if anyone attempted to use her in such a way. It sat very nicely alongside his thoughts of how easily Saruman’s skull would break if it met the very fine stone this tower was made from. Bofur could almost hear the sound in his head. It was a cheering thought. That helped him continue the charade.

‘It’s a nice ring and all, lad,’ Bofur acknowledged generously, ‘but is it really worth all this trouble? I don’t see how wearing the Durin crest is going to help you, but if you asked very nicely I’m sure Thorin would let you have one.’

Thorin would even deliver the ring himself, no doubt; right down the pompous arse’s windpipe. Thorin was all for clearing the world of vermin.

Saruman raised his staff and Bofur waited to see what he would do. It was possible Saruman would kill him here and now, deciding that Bofur’s information wasn’t important enough to keep him alive. Bofur was gambling on the chance that the wizard would become more and more convinced that Bofur had useful information the more foolish he acted.

This time, thankfully, his gamble paid off.

‘You will tell me what you know, dwarf. One way or another,’ he growled. Bofur smiled back cheerfully. Saruman threw the door open and shouted for more orcs. When they arrived the wizard flung out an arm and pointed it at Bofur.

‘Take him away,’ Saruman commanded. The orcs obeyed and soon enough Bofur was back on the roof again.

One day down, Bofur thought to himself. If the Riders pushed hard he would only need to continue this for a week or so.

It was going to be fun.

***

Riding into Lothlórien on Thranduil’s steed was as satisfying as Thorin had expected it to be. In all honesty, riding Tári was proving to be enjoyable all by itself. The elk seemed tireless, eating up more ground than Thorin had imagined possible, and his manners were better than half of Thorin’s Council. Tári did have his own way of ensuring that Thorin knew when he was ready to stop - coming to a dead halt was a very effective method of sending that message – but Thorin was used to that. His usual mount also had decided opinions on how many miles should be covered in one day and Thorin never had managed to train that out of her.

As he had hoped, he had reached the borders of Lothlórien in around half the time it had taken them to travel the other way. In the eaves of the forest Thorin was met by Haldir, clearly on the alert for any hint of their enemies. When he saw Thorin his eyes widened in surprise, flicking across Tári curiously for a moment before they settled on Thorin once more.

‘King Thorin, we had not expected to see you again so soon,’ Haldir noted in a masterly display of understatement. Thorin nodded a greeting and dismounted.

‘Take me to Lady Galadriel, please,’ he ordered as politely as he could. ‘Lord Elrond was only able to hear part of her message.’

‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ Haldir agreed, whistling swiftly when he finished speaking. Two more elves appeared seemingly from nowhere, eyeing Tári with as much curiosity as they could bring themselves to show, and Haldir exchanged short sharp sentences with them in their own tongue. When he was finished he turned back to Thorin and said, ‘Please, follow me.’

They walked swiftly and night was just beginning to fall when Haldir led Thorin into the large clearing which surrounded Celeborn and Galadriel’s flet. Within the clearing were both the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, speaking to a familiar figure.

Upon Thorin’s entrance Celeborn looked up and took his wife’s hand.

‘We have a visitor, my love,’ he said evenly. Galadriel too turned towards Thorin and she rose to her feet as soon as she recognised him.

‘Elrond received my message then,’ she said with some relief.

‘Only a small section of it, my lady,’ Thorin corrected. ‘I fear I know very little except that my nephew has sent a request for wergild.’

‘We are not much more enlightened,’ Celeborn added. ‘The messenger was tasked only with passing on the request and he has been admirably close-lipped about any events in Rohan. We have retrieved the money Master Bofur left here and are almost finished amassing the rest of the payment. It should be ready by noonday tomorrow. Now you are here I imagine you will wish to see to its transport.’

‘I will indeed,’ Thorin agreed. ‘I am very keen to have a discussion with my nephew about what exactly he has been doing in Rohan while I was elsewhere. You have no more details at all?’

‘None,’ Galadriel said sadly. ‘I have searched, but on that subject my sight helps little. I can only assure you that they were, when last I looked, all still alive. I have seen something of your own plans, however,’ she finished, surveying Thorin closely. ‘You mean to join them. You will accompany them to Mordor.’

‘I will,’ Thorin concurred. ‘They seem to get into far too much trouble, otherwise, and if they are taking children with them then I would prefer to oversee the quest myself.’

‘It is a good thought,’ Galadriel told him. ‘I believe they will need you.’

Whether this was prophetic or not Thorin could not tell. He was torn between hoping it was, as evidence he had made the right decision, and hoping it was not, because he would otherwise be finding his family in deep trouble.

At this point Lothlórien’s other visitor intervened.

‘Saruman will be dealt with soon,’ Treebeard informed them all, ‘that will make the world far safer for the small ones. The ents will not allow this treachery to go unpunished.’ Thorin, apprised of recent events by Haldir during their walk, was unsurprised at Treebeard’s resolve.

‘Nor will Lothlórien,’ Celeborn assured him, a hint of mithril in his voice. ‘Saruman will not defile this land any further. People are not as easy to organise as gold, Treebeard. We will need another two days before our forces are ready to march. We _will_ march, however. The ents will not stand alone.’

‘This is good,’ Treebeard asserted. ‘Then Saruman and his orcs will…’ Treebeard continued speaking, but the phrase was in a language entirely foreign to Thorin and went on for some time. He turned his attention instead to a familiar elleth who was coming towards him bearing a goblet and a plate of food. As she handed it to him Thorin managed a smile.

‘Thank you, Liralin,’ he said with gratefully. He had missed several meals in a desire to speed his passage. She gave a small curtsey and stepped back, leaving Galadriel to guide Thorin towards a seat.

‘The orcs that followed you were dealt with?’ Celeborn asked as Thorin tore into his dinner. Rather than risk disgusting his hosts Thorin nodded his confirmation. Once he had swallowed he paused long enough to fill Celeborn and Galadriel in on events further north. When they learned that Erebor had already begun preparing for war both elves smiled.

‘So our chances improve and Sauron’s end grows nearer,’ Celeborn murmured. ‘That is good news indeed. Now, Thorin, I have only one more matter to discuss with you before we allow you to take your rest.’

‘Of course,’ Thorin assented. He owed his hosts a great deal, after all.

‘Was Thranduil sanguine about your use of Tári?’ Celeborn asked, eyes keenly interested. Thorin could not prevent a burst of laughter.

‘I do not think sanguine is the term I would use,’ he informed Lothlórien’s Lord. ‘There was a certain amount of… objection before we were agreed.’

Celeborn now produced the widest smile Thorin had ever seen him wear.

‘Thank you,’ he told Thorin with utter sincerity. ‘That is a very satisfying picture.’

Galadriel joined Thorin in laughter.

***

‘Open the gate,’ the Captain of the Riders shouted as they drew nigh to Edoras. ‘OPEN THE GATE!’

It was approaching evening just over two days since they had fled from Saruman’s orcs. Even Legolas was tired, any normal fatigue only added to by constant anxiety for his friend. He should have kept a better watch. Bofur should never have been so far from aid when he needed it.

Though the gate guards at first seemed reluctant, the torches on the wall lit up the banner one of the Riders had unfurled and suddenly the gates were groaning and creaking as they were winched open as quickly as possible. Théoden and Odhrán, at the head of the party, did not even check their horses as they entered Edoras. The young Prince nudged his mount one way and then another, cleared the knot of people suddenly present in the lower courtyard and continued cantering up to Meduseld. The rest of their party followed him, though at least one of the Riders narrowly avoided a gate guard and had to come to an abrupt halt before moving off again.

By the time they reached Edoras’ highest point King Thengel and Queen Morwen were there to greet them, both monarchs anxiously scanning the group until they caught sight of their son. Théoden dismounted swiftly and a groom rushed over to take charge of his horse. Others did the same for the rest of the party, much to the surprise of most of the Riders, who had always taken care of their horses before counting themselves off duty.

‘You have travelled swiftly indeed if you have been to Isengard and returned,’ Thengel said, easily heard even over the clatter of hooves. ‘What news, Captain?’

‘Ill news, my lord,’ Captain Mared responded. The anxiety in his tone visibly unsettled the Queen.

‘Then it is best shared inside,’ she announced. ‘Come, all of you, you have ridden hard and it is unkind of us to keep you standing.’

Legolas saw her give two commands to ladies standing on either side of her and they hurried away. Then Thengel took his wife’s arm and led her inside, with Théoden following close behind and all the rest of their party joining him.

Once inside they were led to a large dining hall not far from Thengel’s throne room and there they were all offered seats at a wide table which was hastily being filled with platters of food. Conscious of their solemn news, the Riders made no move towards the food.

Only seconds later the rest of the Fellowship began to file into the room, scanning the group as the King and his lady had done earlier. Bilbo was the first to realise what was wrong.

‘Where is Bofur?’ he demanded into the quiet. When he did not receive an immediate answer Bilbo turned to Sigrid with a fierce expression. ‘Sigrid, where is he? Did the idiot get himself injured somehow?’ Sigrid seemed ready to answer, pale though she was, but when she tried to speak no sound came out.

At that point Kíli joined in. ‘Legolas, where is he? Why is he not with you?’

‘He was taken by Saruman,’ Legolas managed. ‘By Saruman’s orcs. We know not what happened after that.’

‘No,’ Bilbo gasped. ‘That… no.’

At that point Thengel decided to take charge of events once more.

‘What did you find?’ he asked Captain Mared sharply. ‘I want a full report.’ The man turned solemn eyes upon his King.

‘Saruman is all that our visitors said he was, Your Majesty,’ Mared stated. ‘We were attacked by orcs only a day or so from Isengard, ambushed in the night while we slept. There were orcs beyond counting, more seemed to arrive every minute and we were forced to flee to save ourselves. We could not save Master Bofur. He had warned us of their approach; maybe that was why they made straight for him when they attacked. I was already mounted by then, trying to get to Lido so that we could escape. I heard, and a number of the others with me, the leader of the orcs shout that he was to be taken to Isengard, to Saruman. I do not know why they wanted him, but they had their orders and followed them.’

‘We have to get him back,’ Legolas stated, allowing no hesitation into his voice, ‘and we must deal with Saruman. That many orcs can be used to no good purpose.’

‘You are sure of this?’ Thengel asked Captain Mared. ‘You are certain of what you heard?’

‘I am, and so are they, Your Majesty,’ the man said without any hint of doubt, gesturing at several of his men. ‘Saruman has betrayed our alliance and your trust.’

‘Then we will teach him to rue the day he did so,’ Thengel pronounced gravely. ‘Odhrán, see that the Éored are summoned. Every able-bodied man is to join us. I will have no orcs polluting my lands.’

Odhrán left immediately, snagging a roll or two as he went. This appeared to recall Lady Morwen from thought and she gestured to the food on the table. ‘Please, eat,’ she said to the Riders. ‘You have travelled far and must surely be hungry.’

A number of the men began to do so and Legolas could not blame them. Others rose from the table, with their Queen’s permission, and made for the barracks to sleep. Legolas sympathised with them even more. He himself had other things that must be done before he could rest. The Fellowship was drawing together, Alnir and Sigrid joining Legolas and the others gravitating towards them instinctively.

‘So now he has both Gandalf and Bofur,’ Bilbo said with a growl, almost vibrating with anger. ‘Saruman had best be wary. No one attacks Erebor’s people and escapes unscathed.’

Legolas would admit to being a little shocked. Bilbo was normally the most peaceful of all of them.

‘No,’ Fíli agreed grimly, ‘they do not. The sooner Thengel’s army rides out the better.’

‘It will have to ride out without us, though,’ Kíli said cautiously. The deathly glares he received made his caution entirely understandable. ‘We have our own quest, remember?’ he asked his brother and their hobbit. ‘We can’t go running off to attack Isengard. Especially not when Bilbo is carrying the ring. You’re supposed to make things difficult for your enemies, not hand them what they want on a silver platter!’

‘Alnir and I will recover Gandalf and Bofur,’ Sigrid said then, the first words Legolas had heard her speak in a long while. ‘That you can count on. The rest of you make sure that ours is not the final victory in this war. Sauron is a greater enemy than Saruman, no matter what the white wizard would like to think.’

Fíli was eyeing Sigrid closely by this point and Legolas could tell his dwarven friend shared his own concern. Sigrid was still almost white, though she gave every appearance of being perfectly in control. She no longer shook, but her hands were balled into fists.

‘Sigrid he will be alright,’ Fíli said with some hesitance. Sigrid smiled at him, but it was a far cry from her normally happy expression.

‘Yes, he will,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll make sure of it or else Tilda will never forgive me. Or Bifur, for that matter.’

Something still did not ring true in these statements and all of them felt it, but when they turned to Alnir for clarification he gave them a look which clearly said, ‘leave it be.’ He knew Sigrid best, so Legolas decided they could do nothing but follow his advice.

‘You should all try to rest,’ Lady Morwen said as she drew near to them. ‘It has been a long few days for you,’ she gestured to Legolas, Alnir and Sigrid, ‘and there are longer still to come.’ Though they were all still shaken they knew that the Queen spoke true and began to rise, ready to go to their rooms. Bilbo’s pained expression reminded Legolas that his friend would have one more terrible job before he went to his rest. Bilbo would need to tell Frodo what had happened. Legolas was just about to offer to accompany him when they were interrupted abruptly.

‘Your Majesty,’ a guard announced as he entered the room, approaching Thengel swiftly, ‘there is a rider approaching Edoras.’

‘One of our Riders?’ Thengel asked, clearly wondering why he was being brought such news.

‘No, my lord,’ the guard responded. ‘I do not know who it is but he…’

The guard did not continue and Thengel clearly grew impatient.

‘What about him, man?’ Thengel queried crisply.

‘He seems to be riding a moose, my lord!’

******

 


	30. Moving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things defy description.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Moving

Pippin didn’t know what he was supposed to be feeling.

It was a problem he hadn’t faced before. In the Shire feelings were fairly simple. Happiness was for sunny days, playing in the fields, exploring the woods, eating wonderful food, smoking pipeweed and spending time with Merry or his friends and family. Sadness was for cold winters, for losing one of his pets, for being shouted at by his mother because he had an unexpected meeting with the Brandywine and ruined his clothes. It was for the days after an elderly relative had died, before the family held the celebration to remember all the good things about that person.

He couldn’t remember anything in the Shire leaving him with this sort of uncertainty. Staring out into the distance in the direction Sméagol had gone, Pippin couldn’t identify how he felt. He half expected to suddenly burst into tears, or to drop onto the ground as he had when they found all those dead orcs. He expected something, at least. Instead he was just numb. He hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d just stared and stared and waited for something to happen. For Sméagol to reappear after tricking the Nazgûl and escaping from them.

For someone to wave a hand and make all of this disappear. Or for Pippin to wake up and realise that it was only in his nightmares that he had left the Shire and all the safety it represented in order to throw himself into an adventure which could kill his friends.

Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Minutes ticked by and still Sméagol was gone. Then the numbness started to fade and the emotions came back.

Fear was the main one, Pippin realised. He was so, so scared of everything that could happen now, all the things that could go wrong on this journey he had foisted himself upon.

What if the Nazgûl caught up with Sméagol? What if he couldn’t outrun them? What if they abandoned the chase and came back?

He was ashamed of that last thought, knew it was selfish and unworthy, but it wouldn’t go away. He would fight if the Nazgûl returned, he knew he would, but he was still scared of having to. They were so strong and he was not. Merry was. He had killed the creature almost without flinching, had somehow managed to launch himself into the air _and_ kill a Nazgûl all in one move. If these had been lighter times Pippin would have been furiously jealous and would probably have spent a lot of time trying to replicate the manoeuvre; but they weren’t lighter times and Pippin wasn’t sure if he could be like Merry, if he could be that brave.

Sméagol was. What he had done, deliberately catching the attention of the Nazgûl and leading them off, was the most heroic thing Pippin had ever seen. Strider and Elladan seemed to think the same. Even as Pippin and Merry had been moving to follow him, trying to run after Sméagol to bring him back, Elladan had caught Pippin up and held him back, murmuring into his ear, ‘No, little one, stay. He uses all his courage to keep you safe. Do not undo what he does here.’

Pippin hadn’t stopped struggling then. How could he, when Sméagol was in so much danger and Pippin could try to stop him? In the end, though, Pippin would never be able to escape Elladan and he had worn himself out with his struggles. Merry had done the same. By the time Sméagol was out of sight Pippin had known there was no more point in fighting and he had stood where Elladan had placed him without stirring. He could not have saved his friend then. He wasn’t sure anyone could have, except maybe Gandalf and he might well need saving himself.

So here he was, still gazing into the distance, feeling sick with grief and yet not sure if grief was merited. Did he give Sméagol up for dead? Pippin had not given up on Gandalf yet, but that was Gandalf, who featured in so many tales as the rescuer, swooping in at the last minute to save everyone. Sméagol was no wizard. He was just a hobbit, when all was said and done, and a hobbit alone now. Pippin just didn’t know what would happen to him or if he would come back. He wanted to believe it, but even he knew that believing something did not make it true. Otherwise he could have believed that Sauron had been extinguished by a big bucket of water and they need never have left Lothlórien at all.

And there was the other emotion, the one Pippin had been trying to hide from. Guilt. Sméagol had come here for him, because he and Merry had ignored what they had been told and had decided to join the quest anyway. Now here they were, safe and alive, and it was all because Sméagol had come after them and protected them and put himself in so much danger. If Pippin had just done as he was asked, if he hadn’t been so sure that he knew best, none of this would be happening.

‘And Estel and I might be dead,’ a soft voice said, startling Pippin by breaking the silence that had surrounded them for what felt like hours. He turned to stare at Elladan, who was wearing one of the saddest smiles Pippin had ever seen.

‘That is what you were thinking, was it not?’ Elladan asked him. ‘That if you had not come then Sméagol would be to the north with my father and all would be well.’ Pippin nodded soundlessly, not sure he trusted his own voice.

‘Yet, had you done so, Estel and I would have been alone when the Nazgûl came,’ Elladan continued once he had received that confirmation. ‘We would have been alone and facing three in quick succession without our hobbits to help us. Merry would not have been here to kill one, or you to set another on fire so that I might finish it off. Perhaps we would have won regardless, but perhaps we would not. I am not sure I would have wanted to find out.’

‘Everyone said we shouldn’t have come,’ Pippin answered, feeling Merry come up beside him and leaning instinctively towards his dearest friend. Merry’s arms came around him from behind and Pippin let himself slouch back, let Merry take his weight for a time as Merry always did. ‘Everyone said that this was too much for us, too dangerous, and we wouldn’t listen. They were right. I don’t know how to be a hero. I don’t know how to save the world. All I know how to do is get in trouble and say silly things to make people laugh.’

Merry shook him slightly as an objection to this statement, but Pippin knew it was true.

‘Pippin, no one was born into this world knowing how to fight evil and protect those they love,’ Strider answered gravely. ‘We all learn and a lot of the time we learn by doing things wrong. When I was fifteen I thought I had learned all I needed to know. I was bored of my lessons, tired of being told that I was too young or too inexperienced to go out and fight. So I took my sword and my pack and I set out from Rivendell, sure that I was going to become the bane of orcs everywhere. I travelled for two days, presumably going in circles at least part of the time for I had only covered about fifteen miles when I was attacked by bandits. Had there not been a pair of true Rangers nearby I would be dead now. After that, after being so certain and then being equally certain that I was going to die, I understood what Glorfindel and my brothers had been trying to tell me. I worked harder, then, and when they told me I was ready I knew they were right.’

He paused for a second then and Pippin stared at him, trying to reconcile the strong, skilled warrior he knew with someone wandering in the wild and nearly getting himself killed. Behind him he could feel Merry doing the same.

‘You are here now,’ Strider told them. ‘Whether it should have been or not, this quest is yours. I do not know what is going to happen to Sméagol. I hope… I hope that all will be well and he will somehow re-join us again. All I know is that he has given us time and safety and we dishonour him if we throw it away. We must use that time to do what we are sworn to do.’

They were sworn to bring Gondor to the aid of their friends. To do their part in bringing Sauron to his end. Pippin stared at the ground for long moments, thinking fully, for the first time, about what they would need to do… and then he nodded to himself.

Walk to Gondor – he could do that. He had walked a very long way in his short years and he was getting better at it all the time.

Convince the Steward of Gondor to help them – he could probably do that as well. Pippin had lots of practice at convincing people to do things they thought they shouldn’t. He had even convinced Sm… he had convinced Sméagol to eat that first carrot when he thought it looked nasty.

Then, fight Sauron and his armies. That he probably couldn’t do, he thought worriedly. Not unless they could be distracted long enough for Pippin to set them all aflame. He looked over his shoulder at Merry, who regarded him solemnly in turn, then turned to Elladan and Strider.

‘I think I’m going to need to practice fighting more,’ Pippin told them shakily. Elladan smiled and Strider’s mouth quirked up at one side, which was about the same thing.

‘That we can arrange,’ Elladan told him with certainty. ‘I have spent centuries making Estel’s family practice far more than they wished to.’

‘First, though,’ Merry said firmly, ‘we need to start walking. It’s too dangerous to stay here much longer.’

‘Yes,’ Pippin agreed, ‘you’re right. We better go.’

‘We were going to sleep,’ Strider reminded his foster brother quietly.

‘I know,’ Elladan answered, ‘but I do not think sleep will come easily now anyway. We might as well be moving while we’re awake.’

Pippin agreed. He wasn’t sure what he would see when he slept, but he had a horrible feeling it was going to involve the sight of Sméagol’s back as he ran from them and the eagerness with which the Nazgûl gave chase. The memories were bad enough while he was awake. He didn’t want to be asleep where he could not force his mind to other things.

So they began to walk again, to put a few miles between them and this place. As they went Pippin made sure to look carefully around him, to memorise the things he saw as well as the way he felt.

Next time, when he thought of something he was so sure was a clever idea, he was going to think of this place and this moment first. Then, if it still seemed like a good idea afterwards, perhaps he would trust himself.

***

Sméagol knew pain well.

In thousands of years of living he had probably felt every type there was. From the burning pain of a sun that had turned against him, to the fierce, unremitting hurt of rejection by those who had done the same, and all that lay between. Biting stabs of hunger when there was little food to be had. Numbing, bone-deep weariness when sheltering from the cold of winter. Racking shakes brought on by discovering that a certain plant wasn’t good for eating. Sudden blinding agony when a fall broke a bone that could not be set. Grinding pain from using a limb still broken.

Worst of all, the bone-deep, endless ache of a body once upright and strong becoming twisted and yet somehow hardened by years of stooping and scraping, crawling and hiding in the darkest places he could find.

Sméagol knew all these pains, had spent uncountable lifetimes nursing and guarding them, nourishing them until they became a bitterness that consumed all in the world, left him hating everything and everyone, including himself.

Even, sometimes, the precious that he otherwise loved more than anything.

When his memories had become clearer, healed by the power of the elven rings, Sméagol had regretted that hatred, those years of pain and loss. He had regretted all that it had made him and the good it had stifled inside him.

He did not regret it now. He could not.

For now it was not something that had been done to him, something that had marred him forever.

Now it was something he had survived.

It was something he could remind himself of over and over again. When weariness tried to overwhelm him, when his feet ached and his eyes blurred and all he wanted was to stop and rest, he could tell himself _we have survived worse_.

That, Sméagol decided, was the greatest skill he had developed over the years. The ability to survive.

So he told himself, over and over, just a bit more.

Just over the crest of that hill.

To that tree.

That rock.

Just another minute.

One more.

The nightmares, the creatures that the Ranger called Nazgûl, were getting closer. Sméagol knew that. Nothing he had borne, no hardiness he had developed, could match the endurance of those who had no body, only spirit and the will to command it. If Sméagol had not seen three of them killed he would have doubted that they could die at all.

He certainly doubted his own ability to kill them.

Especially given that he had no weapon and he was entirely outnumbered. But that was why he would win, in the end.

Sméagol didn’t need to kill them.

He just needed to make sure they did not kill his friends.

He stumbled once, caught himself and pressed on. There was a pile of stone up ahead, a crumbled ruin perhaps as old as he was himself. It was beautiful, in its own way, and also a day and a night away from his hobbits and their protectors.

It looked like a good place to die.

So Sméagol ran just a little further, up to the stones and inside the circle that they made.

Then he stopped.

One nightmare, ahead of all the others, gave a shrieking cry of triumph that made Sméagol tremble with fear. The rest, hearing that shout, let out cries of their own. They advanced on Sméagol, a group of wolves scenting the blood of their prey. Swords were drawn and lifted, blades pointing towards the sky and held before their bodies.

Sméagol shook with terror, felt the instinct to run rise once more and knew that he would not be able to obey it even if he wished. He was spent. He had nothing left to give.

Sméagol did not run, but closed his eyes and thought of his hobbits, holding tight to the happiness he had only just reclaimed. He thought of carrots in a woodland clearing, of laughter on the road and a song sung for the joy of throwing off a cloak.

He thought of fountains made for playing in, of a necklace flying through the air and a friend determined to fetch it to save Sméagol from trouble.

He thought of whispered words of forgiveness. Of a hug given for comfort. Of a brave, brave hobbit saying _no we do not kill him_.

He thought of sunlight through the trees.

The wound, when it came, was no match for such memories. Though it hurt, it was an old, familiar sort of pain. Sharp and stabbing like a broken bone. Shivering like eating something wrong. Numbing like a too-cold night.

Sméagol barely heard the Nazgûl’s cries of rage. They had cornered their prey, killed it and still they had not what they wanted.

They had been fooled and what was left of their minds felt fear. Their master would not be pleased.

Sméagol felt no fear.

He remembered the stories told to two young faunts in a world lifetimes away from this. Stories which described where their grandfather had gone when he was no longer there to sneak them treats and laugh and wink as they snuck outside to play.

Sméagol felt hope.

For perhaps with this one good act, this one sacrifice, he would undo some of the evil he had done.

Perhaps, now, even he would find peace.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been a long time coming. I'll confess that up until a week ago I wasn't sure if it would happen 'on-screen' or not. Then my mind presented me with the final scene on the way home from work and this chapter was born. I hope it did all I wanted it to. Let me know what you think!


	31. Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all need to hold on to what they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos, as always, they make the marathon-like chapters much easier to write.

Chapter Thirty: Hold

The King and Queen of Rohan were remarkably composed, Kíli thought, for people who had discovered that there was an evil wizard plotting who-knew-what on the borders of their kingdom and that a random person mounted on a moose was approaching Edoras. They gathered themselves with only a quick glance at each other and then proceeded to exit the room at a pace which managed to combine dignity with speed.

Kíli was rather impressed, in the part of his mind not occupied with worrying about Bofur or running through the reasons why someone might be mounted on a moose. He’d seen Thranduil’s elk, of course, but not yet a moose. Perhaps it was the other mad wizard Gandalf knew. He apparently had all sorts of strange animal friends.

As the Fellowship, what remained of them, followed their hosts to see what was going on, Fíli drew close to his brother and they exchanged a look of their own.

‘I’ll bet you a boring council meeting that this is not good news,’ Kíli told Fíli quietly.

‘Fool’s bet,’ Fíli responded, trying to hide his anxiety but not quite succeeding. ‘Nothing that’s happened since we left Lothlórien has been good news.’

That was true enough, so Kíli didn’t argue. Instead he looked ahead at his friends and tried to assess how much more bad news they could take. While Fíli was generally better with the political side of talking to people – getting them to see his side, breaking tensions that threatened to turn a meeting sour – they both knew that the well-being of their own group was Kíli’s responsibility. He was going to have his work cut out for him after today, that much was certain. They were all shaken and certain people (Bilbo and Sigrid, mostly) could get decidedly snippy when they were upset.

By this time the mismatched entourage had passed through much of the city and were standing atop the hill which led down to Edoras’ gates. There was no way to see over the top of the gates, unfortunately, but the flurry of activity made it clear that the visitor was not far away.

‘My lord, do we…?’ a guard called up to Thengel.

‘Let them in,’ Thengel commanded. ‘It is only one man.’

Kíli, who was acquainted with several people who could be absolutely deadly even on their own, felt that this was either very brave or very foolish. He knew better than to object, though. One thing he had learned since they retook Erebor was that you argued with the king as little as possible in public. In private, of course, they all argued with Uncle whenever they felt they needed to.

When the gates were opened and the great steed cantered through, Kíli wondered if Uncle was developing the truly terrifying ability to appear whenever his nephews thought about him. As they often thought about him in the context of ‘oh, please don’t let Uncle find out about this’ that was a very worrying thought.

Kíli felt no need to speak this idea aloud. There was no point in disturbing Fíli as well. He did not need to speak his second thought aloud, either. Legolas did it for him.

‘That is not a moose,’ Legolas announced to all around them. ‘That is an elk.’

Uncle, who had slowed Tári to a halt and was dismounting swiftly, gave a bark of laughter.

‘I am glad to see that your eyes are as keen as ever, Legolas,’ he responded dryly.

‘That is _Father’s_ elk,’ Legolas continued, as if Uncle had not spoken. Now Bilbo, who had previously looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to yell at Uncle or thank the Valar for his appearance, instead closed his mouth and stared.

‘Again, you are correct,’ Uncle answered, giving Legolas the same look he turned upon Kíli when he was waiting for Kíli to link two ideas together.

‘Father isn’t with you?’ Legolas asked, as if Thranduil was somehow managing to conceal himself in the saddlebags. ‘He isn’t dead, is he?’ Uncle did not bother responding to such a ridiculous question, especially as it was clear Legolas did not mean it.

‘Thorin, does my father _know_ that you have run off with Tári?’ Legolas asked, his tone a little sharper than normal. Tári, perhaps sensing that all was not well with the scion of his master’s house, stepped forward and butted his head against Legolas’ shoulder. Legolas began to stroke the elk’s great head repetitively and did appear a little calmer after a moment or two.

‘Of course he does,’ Uncle replied. Kíli caught a glimpse of the look in his eyes and concluded that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Once Glorfindel very kindly offered to let me borrow Asfaloth, Thranduil realised that Tári would in fact be a far better choice.’

Now Kíli knew that Uncle was enjoying himself. He was leaving a lot out of that description. An awful lot.

Luckily for good relations between Erebor and the Woodland Realm, and possibly Rohan as well, Fíli stepped in at that point.

‘Thengel-King, might I introduce you to my Uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain,’ he said smoothly, drawing Uncle’s attention where it should have been all along.

‘King Thengel,’ Uncle said solemnly. ‘Lady Galadriel told me that Erebor was in debt to your kingdom. I felt I had best accompany the gold myself, to ensure that the situation was resolved as quickly as possible.’

‘We are honoured by your visit, King Thorin,’ Thengel answered in a similar tone. ‘My wife, Morwen,’ he continued, completing the introductions. ‘Please join us inside.’

‘Of course,’ Uncle accepted. ‘Fíli, Kíli, relieve Tári of the chests, please. Then we can discuss why it is Erebor is in debt at all.’

Oh, that wasn’t going to be good. That was not going to be good at all. Some of the relief that Kíli had felt when he realised that Uncle had joined them faded.

He hated arguments.

***

Bilbo repressed a sigh of gratitude as they began to process back towards Meduseld once more. It was not that he lacked confidence in their Fellowship - they had so far managed to deal with most of the problems which had arisen - but with Bofur and Gandalf missing and Frodo still being held in prison below the Golden Hall, having Thorin there was comforting.

If nothing else, Thorin was used to finding solutions to truly ridiculous situations. Mostly because he was so often the cause of them.

‘What have you managed to get yourself into this time, Fíli?’ he heard Thorin ask quietly. Then, after a second, ‘No, actually, first I wish to know where Frodo and Bofur are. _Then_ you can tell me why we owe Rohan a small fortune. Lucky for us Bofur does not believe in travelling without funds.’

‘The two questions are somewhat related,’ Fíli answered carefully, wincing as he looked at Thorin and then ducking his head again. Bilbo could not help intervening. He had lashed out at Fíli and Kíli originally, but really this was not their fault. Bilbo knew _exactly_ where to lay the blame and the lads were as much victims of that person’s idiocy as everyone else. He felt his ire rise just thinking of it and made an effort to tamp it back down, though it burned like dragonfire. He would not lose his temper now. It would be so much more effective to do so while he was tearing Dwalin into tiny little pieces. He unclenched his fingers one by one, breathed deeply and then dropped back to join Thorin’s conversation with the boys.

‘Frodo made a costly mistake,’ Bilbo told Thorin. ‘It was entirely accidental, and at least partly caused by this blasted ring, but reparation needed to be made and we had to remain here until the gold arrived.’

‘Costly mistake?’ Thorin asked, though the question seemed entirely rhetorical. A few silent moments passed and then Thorin swallowed and muttered a low expletive.

‘How is he?’ he asked Bilbo intently, concern writ clear across his face.

‘As well as could be expected,’ Bilbo answered, unsurprised that Thorin knew enough of Rohirrim law to reach the correct conclusion. Once Thorin had taken up his throne it had become clear that his education in ruling, while somewhat sporadic, had been fairly thorough. What he had not known he had learned with the help of Balin and Thranduil. In fact, Thranduil had joked at one point that he should abandon kingship in favour of teaching, so much time did he spend guiding Bard, Varr and Thorin.

‘The widow of the Rider Frodo killed was very fair,’ Fíli added, ‘and Thengel was scrupulously so in arranging the settlement. There was some unpleasantness to begin with, but we did manage to clear that up. Frodo will be allowed to rejoin us now that the wergild has arrived.’

‘Where has he been until now?’ Thorin queried sharply, voice rising a little. Bilbo, who had been furious about his nephew’s stay in the dungeons, found himself in the odd position of giving Thorin a warning glare before he could object to the very same thing.

‘He has been in the cells,’ Bilbo began, raising his own voice slightly when Thorin began to speak again, ‘kept as comfortable as Queen Morwen could make him. It is their law, Thorin.’

Thorin shook his head but said nothing. The law was the law, he knew that even better than Bilbo did.

‘So Bofur is with Frodo?’ Thorin questioned. By this time they were entering the Golden Hall itself and Bilbo realised that Thengel was leading them directly to the room they had gathered in not so long ago. He decided to take this as a good sign. It was probably best that Thorin receive some of this news in private first and entering the Hall gave Bilbo an opportunity to avoid answering for a moment. Odhrán passed them going the other way, ushering Riders before him, and bowed to his King as Thengel approached.

‘Thank you, Odhrán,’ Thengel said, eyeing the empty room that could be seen through the open door. Bilbo supposed that every land must have people like Balin and Odhrán, quietly and calmly seeing that things ran as smoothly as they could even in the face of disaster.

That he was normally one of these people himself did not occur to him. He did not feel calm these days. It was all he could do to give the appearance of being so.

‘King Thorin, I am sorry that we find ourselves in this situation,’ Thengel spoke once they had all entered. ‘I had hoped that, when Rohan eventually had dealings with Erebor, they would begin more auspiciously.’

‘I have often had similar hopes,’ Thorin replied calmly, making Bilbo very thankful that they had been able to break at least some of the bad news to Thorin before they found themselves having this conversation. ‘It is amazing how frequently life dashes them. I should begin by apologising for any damage that has been done. It is truly regrettable that such a thing has happened.’

‘It is,’ Thengel agreed, ‘but your nephews and their friends do you credit, King Thorin, including Master Frodo. My own behaviour was far from perfect when first I made their acquaintance, so I hope that we can simply put the incident behind us now that the reparation has been made.’

As he said this he gestured to the two small chests which Fíli and Kíli had carried through with them. Bilbo wondered briefly if Thengel would send for someone to count the money, but was unsurprised that Thengel knew better than to suggest that Erebor might be anything other than honest.

‘Of course,’ Thorin said graciously. Bilbo resisted the urge to giggle, as he often did when Thorin was being ‘King under the Mountain’ so obviously. It was a bad habit he was trying to cure himself of, and he stifled the sound ruthlessly. He could feel a note of hysteria in his amusement this time and the last thing they needed was for him to come to pieces now.

‘That is good, then,’ Thengel said with a slight smile. ‘My love…’ he began, but Queen Morwen was already moving.

‘I will go and get Master Frodo,’ she told them. ‘Please continue, I shall not be long.’ Bilbo wished to join her, but something stopped him. Better he keep an eye on Thorin, he told himself, hand rubbing at his chest as a rush of cold made him shiver. Frodo would arrive soon enough

‘Unfortunately,’ Thengel spoke again once Queen Morwen had left and the door was closed behind her, ‘my son, Master Alnir and Lady Sigrid have just informed me that we have a far greater problem than an accidental death.’

Thorin turned to look at Sigrid and Alnir, who were stood behind the rest of the Fellowship with Théoden hovering nearby.

‘Why do I feel that this trouble has something to do with Bofur?’ Thorin asked wearily when he saw their faces.

‘Because he would not have let us out of his sight otherwise?’ Sigrid responded, trying to look calm. She did not fool Thorin for a second, any more than she fooled Bilbo. The eldest of their surrogate daughters was holding herself together by willpower alone. Bilbo could entirely understand her anxiety. His own hysterics continued to threaten to escape and he could feel himself taking the deep breaths he always reverted to when he was frightened. The last few weeks had been wearing and he was not sure how much longer he could keep a hold on his fears.

Kíli’s hand suddenly appeared on Bilbo’s shoulder and Bilbo took another deep breath. It would be fine, he told himself firmly. Bofur was resourceful and generally quite lucky. He ascribed most of this luck to his stupid hat, which was just like him, but he did manage to pull himself out of scrapes that would floor most people. Besides, Thorin was here now. With him, Fíli, Kíli, Legolas, Sigrid and Alnir, plus Thengel and his armies, surely they would be able to rescue Bofur, and Gandalf as well.

At least it was easier to keep his grip with Kíli keeping a firm grip on him.

It also distracted him from the truly irritating tricks the ring was playing at that moment. One would almost think that it was sulking because Thorin had arrived. Either way, what was taking place here was far more important than its tantrum.

‘Where is he, then?’ Thorin was asking Sigrid and Alnir gently, looking them both over carefully.

‘We’re not entirely sure,’ Alnir said, ‘but the last we heard he was being taken to Isengard by a group of orcs.’

‘Oh Mahal preserve us!’ Thorin exclaimed, apparently forgetting where he was. ‘You’re telling me that Saruman has Bofur?’

‘Unless Bofur managed to escape,’ Kíli answered when no one else spoke, ‘then yes.’

‘On the bright side,’ Alnir contributed, ‘if Isengard suddenly blows up then we’ll know why.’

It was not a particularly good attempt at humour, but Bilbo could appreciate the thought behind it. It was exactly what Bofur would have done, after all.

‘Will you go to war?’ Thorin asked Thengel then. Thengel did not hesitate.

‘The éored are being summoned back to Edoras as we speak. We should be ready to march soon enough.’

‘Then I have good news for you,’ Thorin stated, ‘which should make a nice change. When I left Lothlórien both Lord Celeborn and the ent, Treebeard, were doing much the same. If your forces can meet them on the march to Isengard then you will not fight alone.’

Bilbo wondered how much comfort this would actually be to Thengel, given the suspicious attitude that most Rohirrim seemed to hold towards the Golden Wood, but Thengel appeared less concerned about fighting alongside Lothlórien’s soldiers than he was about what, exactly, an ent was.

***

Frodo was so glad to leave Rohan’s dungeons that he did not, at first, take in what Queen Morwen said. A few steps out of his cell, however, gave his mind enough time to catch up with his ears.

‘Uncle Thorin is here?’ he asked her in disbelief. ‘He was supposed to be riding north to Erebor.’

‘I am sure that he was, my dear,’ Queen Morwen told him, ‘but his plans seem to have changed. He rode into Edoras with the wergild around half an hour ago.’

‘Oh,’ Frodo said in a stunning display of wit. He saw a poisonous glare directed at him by a passing servant and flinched instinctively. Queen Morwen noticed and returned the glare with a look which could have frozen a person solid. The servant stammered an apology and fled, but Frodo knew that he was not welcome here. He had killed a good man with a young family. Many of these people would never forgive that, no matter what decision had been made by their King or what the man’s fellow soldiers said.

He wished they could leave this place entirely. He just wasn’t sure where he should be going when he left.

He had come to protect Uncle Bilbo, but so far he was making as good a job of that as Uncle Dwalin would have made of weaving. Uncle Nori had convinced him to try it once and he hadn’t stopped laughing when he saw Uncle Dwalin for weeks.

Really, it was a good job that Uncle Dori carried his flail with him everywhere.

Anyway, that was beside the point. The point was that Frodo had, so far, caused more harm than he had good. Perhaps it was time for him to go home and admit that he wasn’t ready to be a dwarven soldier like his uncles and cousins.

Maybe that would stop anyone else getting hurt.

As they entered a large room which was full of the Fellowship and a few martial-looking Rohirrim, Frodo saw Uncle Thorin and most of his friends clustered near a table with a large map spread out over it. The exception was Uncle Bilbo, who hurried over and gathered Frodo up in a hug. Uncle Bilbo had always been affectionate but Frodo had never appreciated it as much as he had this last week or two. If Uncle Bilbo still loved him then at least he had not ruined everything.

‘There you are, lad,’ Uncle Bilbo said. ‘You stay with me now. I know Thorin wants to talk to you, but there is something we need to talk about first.’

‘Is he very angry with me?’ Frodo couldn’t help asking. He dreaded disappointing his family and in some ways Uncle Thorin most of all. He had managed to lead thirteen people to reclaim his homeland and kill a dragon; he was a hero as much as anyone in the books Ori had read to Frodo when he was little. Frodo didn’t want Thorin to regret him ever coming to Erebor.

‘No, lad, not at all,’ Bilbo assured him, though Frodo couldn’t find too much comfort in it. Uncle Bilbo would probably say that no matter what. He’d been angry enough with Frodo himself, until he’d had cause to feel sympathy instead. Frodo could still see that anger in his eyes sometimes. It seem to wax and wane, but it was still there.

‘Frodo, I need you to listen to me now,’ Bilbo said firmly, drawing Frodo’s eyes back to him. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Uncle Bilbo looked so serious that Frodo immediately felt a shiver run through him. What had happened now?

‘Frodo, you know that Bofur rode out with the Rohirrim a few days ago,’ Uncle Bilbo began. It was only then that Frodo realised he had seen Legolas, Sigrid and Alnir across the room. They should still be out finding out what had happened. They should be…. Frodo looked all around but he couldn’t see Uncle Bofur anywhere.

‘Is he…?’ he asked Uncle Bilbo, annoyed at how weak his voice sounded. He’d been the one insisting that he was all grown up and ready to join this quest. It was about time he started proving it instead of reacting like a little boy whenever something went wrong.

‘As far as we know he’s still alive,’ Uncle Bilbo hurried to assure Frodo. ‘He was taken captive when they were attacked and taken away by the orcs. Thengel and the others are preparing to go after him now.’

‘Was anyone else hurt?’ Frodo asked worriedly, glad that his voice was steadier at least. ‘Did they all come back?’

‘Everyone else was fine,’ Sigrid said quietly, approaching them and resting her hand atop Frodo’s head. Frodo got annoyed sometimes when people did that. Just because he was short and looked like a child of Men didn’t mean people had to pat him all the time. He didn’t mind with Sigrid, though, or with Tilda. They just did it because they liked to be close to people when they were worried.

‘Did Uncle Bofur do something stupid?’ Frodo couldn’t help asking. Sigrid gave a short laugh, although it sounded like she meant it.

‘For once, he did not,’ she told Frodo, ‘shocking though that may be. It was just bad luck Frodo. We seem to be having more than our fair share of that of late.’

That Frodo could easily agree with. He had come to the conclusion that the ring was bad luck just by existing. The Company had not had this many problems when they were journeying. Well apart from the trolls… and the orcs on their wargs… and the goblins… and Uncle Bilbo being bitten by that warg… and…. Alright, perhaps the ring wasn’t the only problem, but it certainly wasn’t helping matters!

‘We’ll get him back though,’ Frodo said with certainty, trying to reassure her. He knew how close Sigrid was to Uncle Bofur. She wouldn’t be able to stop worrying until they had him back, any more than Frodo would.

‘We will,’ she agreed, also sounding certain, ‘and I will be much more use to our efforts when I am not falling asleep standing up. As will Alnir, Legolas and Théoden. If you would, Bilbo?’

‘Of course,’ Uncle Bilbo responded, then gave the short, sharp whistle that the Council of Erebor, as well as many of their allies, knew well. Uncle Thorin and the rest of their Fellowship stopped and turned immediately. ‘Thorin, I do not know how long you have been travelling,’ Uncle Bilbo said firmly, ‘but I know that at least a few people in this room are ready to drop. Perhaps we could reconvene later? I very much doubt King Thengel’s forces will return with greater speed because you were staring at a map while they rode.’

Uncle Thorin looked at Uncle Bilbo for several moments, then shook his head. He seemed to do that a lot when he was talking to his family. Frodo didn’t know why, but the familiarity was nice right now.

‘Very well, as long you do not object, Thengel?’

‘Not at all,’ King Thengel answered. ‘No doubt my son would be better for some sleep as well. I am simply surprised Master Bilbo made the suggestion before my lady.’

‘I like to give you at least a chance to be sensible,’ Queen Morwen told him. ‘Then when I scold you I know that I am most definitely in the right.’

‘You keep telling us that you’re always right,’ Théoden pointed out as he walked towards the door.

‘I am,’ Queen Morwen said firmly, ‘but it is always pleasant to have these things proven.’

With that the group began to break up. Frodo was not tired enough to sleep, but he did need to talk to Uncle Thorin at some point. This might be as good a chance as any.

***

‘You were riding an _elk_! You actually stole Thranduil’s elk to ride here. You really do like to show off, don’t you?’

‘Kíli, do you wish to begin our discussion of why I owed Thengel all that gold?’

‘Forget I said anything. I didn’t say a word about how silly you looked riding an animal whose saddle is longer than your legs. OW!’

‘You deserved that.’

‘Oh, shut up, Fíli!’

***

Thorin was not all that surprised when someone knocked on the door of the rooms he would be using, which had previously belonged to a visiting nobleman, if Thorin was right, and had hastily been emptied when a fellow king arrived. There were several members of his family he needed to speak to and the only question in his mind was which of them this would be.

Opening the door, he won a bet with himself. Frodo.

‘Come in, Frodo,’ he said, careful to keep his voice gentle. The lad seemed far more fragile than he had mere weeks ago and Thorin could admit that he was concerned. He did not want to do any more damage than had already been done. If he was right then Frodo was punishing himself enough as it was.

Frodo did not speak immediately, just stood in the centre of the room and waited for something, though Thorin was not sure what. Eventually, unwilling to let the silence drag on any longer, Thorin moved forward and gathered Frodo to him.

‘I was worried about you,’ he told Frodo, as close to a reproof as he meant to get.

‘I’m sorry,’ Frodo said softly. ‘I’m really sorry, Uncle Thorin.’

‘I know you are,’ Thorin replied, ‘but thank you for saying it.’ He let Frodo go and moved to take a seat in one of the chairs by the fire. Frodo took another and stared at the flames as if they held the answers to every question he had.

‘Do you wish to tell me what happened, Frodo?’ Thorin asked after a minute or two, drawing Frodo out of his own head. He was not sure what the answer would be. Bilbo, Thorin knew, had spoken long with Frodo about what happened. He was certain either Fíli or Kíli would have done the same.

Frodo had always tended to come to either Thorin or Dwalin with his problems though. Why he felt that these two out of all the family were best suited to advise him Thorin did not know. He and Dwalin would both acknowledge that they much preferred beating problems into submission to talking about them. Look what they had been doing when they were arguing over Frodo. Still, they had done their best to overcome natural instincts, as they had when Fíli and Kíli had been young. Thorin hated the idea that he might fail one of his nephews somehow, simply by being himself. He always tried to be better than that, even if it did not always work.

For a second it seemed that Frodo would not answer him. Then, haltingly, he began to relate all that had happened. He began with leaving Lothlórien, which was not what Thorin had expected but was welcome nevertheless. There had been little chance to speak to any of the others about what they had encountered before they reached Edoras and Frodo was an insightful narrator most of the time, despite his youth.

Thorin briefly heard Dwalin’s voice in his head, grumbling that that insight was part of the reason he had allowed Frodo to follow Bilbo. Thorin had no compunction about telling his absent Captain of the Guard to bugger off and leave him alone.

Frodo’s tale took some time to tell, in part because he always remembered the lessons Ori, Bilbo and Dís had given him about getting things in the proper order. Thus Thorin learned of the meeting between the young hobbits and the ent Treebeard and the loss of Gandalf, which made him curse anew. Until the lads had mentioned rescuing Gandalf as well as Bofur, Thorin had hoped that Gandalf had simply wandered off untimely, as he had done when they were journeying to Erebor. Frodo told him of Sméagol’s arrival, his attempt to take the ring from Bilbo (Thorin’s hands flexed as he imagined wringing the creature’s neck, though he made sure to make no sound) and Elladan’s decision that they should separate; which at least answered the question of what had happened to him, Aragorn and the other two hobbits. Thorin sent a mental prayer to Mahal for their safety.

Finally, Frodo came to the moment of their encounter with the Riders and all it had led to. It was, when told, so tragically avoidable that Thorin did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Any of a thousand things could have happened to prevent that confrontation, and to save Frodo from knowing this feeling, but none of them had.

Sometimes fate had a terrible sense of humour.

When Frodo had finished, he looked at Thorin hopefully, trusting somehow that Thorin would know what to say to make all right with the world. Thorin suffered for the thousandth time the fear of a parent who is so trusted and feels so utterly unequal to the challenge. Bilbo was so much better at this part.

He could not stay silent, though. He could not let Frodo feel that he was angry with him, just because he did not know what to say.

‘It was a terrible accident,’ Thorin found himself saying, ‘but an accident nonetheless. I also agree with your Uncle that the ring was most likely not helping matters. Evil does its best to ruin the lives of good men and all we can do is try to stop it. We do not always succeed, much as I wish we did.’

‘I shouldn’t have drawn my sword,’ Frodo whispered, though he made sure to meet Thorin’s eyes. Whatever he saw there Frodo appeared to find it comforting, for he relaxed slightly.

‘No,’ Thorin agreed, ‘you should not have. We do not always do what we should, Frodo. It is horrible, but there is no changing it now.’ Frodo swallowed abruptly and tears seemed to spring to his eyes, though he let none of them fall. Then he nodded determinedly.

‘Should I go back to Erebor?’ he asked Thorin clearly, head held high.

‘Do you think you should go back to Erebor?’ Thorin asked in return. He had always hated it when his father turned questions around on him like that, but it had made him think more fully about what he was saying or doing. That could only help Frodo now.

‘Maybe,’ Frodo answered, then paused for a moment. ‘I’ve caused a lot of trouble here and there are many people in Rohan who will think badly of the others because of me. It might be easier for them to deal with Thengel’s people if I’m not here. And if I carry on with Uncle Bilbo like I meant to then I will have to fight. I don’t know if I can now. I… I haven’t touched any weapons since the Rohirrim took us captive. Obviously they wouldn’t let me have one. Thinking about having one again makes me feel sick.’

Thorin found that he was less surprised by this revelation than Frodo expected. He had known days when he had felt much the same himself, standing on a battlefield and looking at the good dwarves he had led to their deaths. It might not have been his sword that had killed them, but he had not saved them by wielding it either.

Time for a little of his sister’s wisdom.

‘Frodo, come here,’ he said softly, rising from his chair and crossing to fetch Orcrist, which was currently resting against the wall. Frodo looked nervous but trusted him enough to do as he was told. When they were side-by-side, Thorin reached out and drew Orcrist from its sheath, then took Frodo’s right hand and drew it to the hilt of the sword, holding it there with his own.

‘The sword is a weapon, lad,’ he told his nephew. ‘A tool, if you like. You do not need it to kill a man, even if it makes killing easier. It is not the sword you’re scared of, Frodo. It is what you might do with it. You know that. Only you can decide how important that fear is.’

Frodo stared at the blade silently for a long time, then slowly closed his hand around the hilt properly. Thorin, reminded of times that a young Frodo had begged to be allowed to hold Orcrist, even though the sword was as big as he was, released his own grip.

‘I promised her I would make amends,’ Frodo said after a moment. ‘Mistress Etha,’ he clarified, ‘his widow.’

‘A worthy promise,’ Thorin replied solemnly, when it seemed Frodo would stop talking.

‘If we stopped Sauron,’ Frodo said, voice so low it was barely a murmur, ‘if we stopped him destroying Middle Earth, that would be good, wouldn’t it? A good way of keeping the promise.’ He looked up at Thorin questioningly.

Thorin considered him for a moment, thinking of all the arguments he had thrown at Dwalin, the moment of vindication he had felt when he heard of what had happened to Frodo. Then he thought of the age he had been when he had learnt these lessons himself. The boy so sure of his own skill he had marched to war without a thought for the cost of battle.

Frodo might be their youngest, the one he wished to protect instinctively, but his childhood was over now, for better or for worse.

‘Yes, Frodo, it would be a good way,’ he agreed. ‘Is that what you mean to do?’

Frodo thought a moment longer, then nodded firmly, eyes clear now.

‘The ring wants this,’ he told Thorin. ‘It wants to make us afraid of each other, and of ourselves. It wants us to give up because that’s what Sauron wants. That can’t be more important than my promise. You trained me for this, you all did. This time I’m going to do it properly.’

So they grow up, Thorin thought to himself. Grow up and make you proud, even when you wished you could lock them away for their own safety.

***

‘Which one are you taking first?’ Fíli asked his brother curiously. It was amazing the difference a few hours’ sleep could make, even if you hadn’t felt that tired to begin with. It was easier to face the tasks you knew you had to complete but didn’t want to.

‘Legolas, I think,’ Kíli answered as he pulled his boots on. ‘He doesn’t need as much sleep and he was far more irritated about Tári than he would have been any other time. He’s feeling guilty.’

‘He could just be annoyed that Uncle twisted Thranduil’s arm,’ Fíli proposed, though he wasn’t convinced himself. Kíli’s snort made it clear he wasn’t either.

‘Legolas wouldn’t be annoyed about that,’ Kíli scoffed. ‘He’d think it was hilarious, just like he did when we ran off with the royal crown so I could improve it. Something’s making him upset and it isn’t an elk.’

‘Fair enough,’ Fíli stated, willing to be convinced. ‘Good luck.’

‘You’ll need it more than I will,’ Kíli told him, flapping at Fíli’s hand when his brother tried to straighten the braid he’d fashioned carelessly. ‘Get off, it’s only Legolas. We don’t all need to be prettied up all the time.’

This little ritual complete, they went in search of their separate trials.

***

‘I wondered when you would turn up,’ Uncle said dryly as Fíli let himself into the room. ‘Kíli is absenting himself, I take it?’

‘Kíli hates arguments, you know that,’ Fíli replied as he perched on the edge of the table across from where Uncle sat. ‘Besides, he has other seams to mine.’

‘Bilbo?’ Uncle asked. Fíli shook his head.

‘Oh no, he’s all yours,’ he told Uncle, ‘and you’d best get on to it soon. He’s not himself at all. Enjoy.’ Uncle rolled his eyes. After a minute or so of silence Fíli spoke again.

‘You aren’t shouting as much as we thought you would,’ he told his uncle baldly.

‘I’ve already spoken to Frodo,’ Thorin explained. ‘I expect a great deal of the two of you, I know, but not elven foresight. You could not know what would take place and these things happen so quickly stopping them is almost impossible. It was not your fault, Fíli. Either of you.’

Relief washed through Fíli for a second. He and Kíli had felt terrible from the moment Frodo had stabbed Aelfric, and being blamed by Bilbo had not helped, even if he was just lashing out. Knowing that Uncle did not blame them was like having a rock lifted off his chest. He wished Kíli was here to hear Uncle say that.

Then he remembered that Aelfric’s death wasn’t the only thing they had been expecting to be murdered for.

‘We let Frodo come with us,’ Fíli offered, knowing that getting it all out of the way now would be better in the long run.

Uncle sighed.

‘I will be letting him continue on,’ he informed Fíli wryly. ‘It would make chiding the two of you for not sending him home somewhat hypocritical.’

Fíli stared in shock before he got hold of himself.

‘You aren’t sending him back?’ he asked Uncle incredulously.

‘No,’ Uncle sighed again, ‘I am not. If I sent him back now he would likely never trust himself again. Kíli was young when we set out from Ered Luin. You were not all that much older. You proved yourselves then. Perhaps it is time Frodo has the chance to do so as well.’

‘I think he’ll be better for it,’ Fíli offered. ‘Kíli does as well.’

‘Well, you are good judges of people,’ Uncle said. ‘Better than I am, some of the time. No doubt you are right.’

Decision made and supported, Fíli could not help one small sly remark. It had been on the tip of his tongue much of the day.

‘Did riding Tári make you feel more _majestic_ , Uncle? Maybe Thranduil is rubbing off on you more than we thought!’

Thorin walked over to the bed, apparently deciding to ignore Fíli’s jibe.

Then he grabbed a pillow in one lightning-fast movement and threw at Fíli with all his strength.

Fíli jerked, tried to catch it and slid off the table instead, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

He had to wait a second for his breath to come back to him, chest heaving after the initial shock. Then he burst out laughing. Uncle joined him.

***

Thorin should have known better than to think that Bilbo would come to him. Bilbo had decided years ago that Thorin was spoilt and had made it his role in life to add difficulties to Thorin’s as often as possible. Thorin had objected to this on any number of occasions (it was not as if the rest of the Company gave him an easy time, and Bilbo _was_ acquainted with Dís) but it had had no effect.

Hobbits were far too stubborn for Thorin’s liking.

Bilbo was not sleeping, which had crossed Thorin’s mind, but was sat smoking a pipe Thorin hadn’t realised he had with him.

‘I see you considered pipeweed a vital item of travelling equipment,’ he teased his old friend gently. Bilbo snorted.

‘If you did not have the good sense to pack your own then that is no fault of mine,’ he said haughtily, even as he crossed to his pack and produced another pipe. Returning to his seat he packed the pipe, lit it and handed it to Thorin. Thorin accepted it gratefully. He did miss this when he was travelling.

‘You did not kill the boys, I hope?’ Bilbo queried with a tone of studied unconcern. Thorin did not believe it for a second.

‘I did not,’ he confirmed. ‘I am not completely unreasonable.’ Bilbo huffed but did not argue. Then he frowned deeply for a second before speaking.

‘You talked to Dwalin before you left?’

Ah, and here they came to the crux of the matter, Thorin thought. When they had spoken earlier Thorin had felt Bilbo thrumming with anger, despite his calm appearance. Dwalin was the most logical person to aim that anger at.

After all, Thorin had done the same.

‘I did,’ he confirmed, waiting to see what Bilbo had to say.

‘Does he still live?’ Bilbo queried sharply. Clearly he hoped the answer was no.

‘He does,’ Thorin replied warily. ‘Much as I might have intended otherwise at one point.’

‘He should not,’ Bilbo uttered scathingly, fingers clenching on the arms of his chair and the stem of his pipe, now dangling forgotten in one hand. ‘After what that idiot has done to us all he deserves to be hung.’ Thorin felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. Fíli was right.

Anger was one thing. Bilbo was, as Bofur was fond of saying, like a kettle boiling when he got angry. The heat rose until steam was practically pouring out of his ears, normally culminating in a burst of shouting, then he calmed rapidly. Yet according to the boys Bilbo had exploded several times in the last few weeks and still he had that bitter tone to his voice.

That wasn’t like him at all.

‘Bilbo, it is not as if Dwalin meant for any of this to happen,’ Thorin reminded his friend.

‘What does it matter what he meant to happen?’ Bilbo snapped.

‘Quite a lot, I should think,’ Thorin replied tartly. ‘How many times have you told Thengel that Frodo did not mean to kill that man?’

‘That isn’t the same and you know it,’ Bilbo ground out, an ugly look in his eyes, his hand rising off the arm of the chair in a wild gesture.

Then it drew back in towards his chest and clutched at his shirt, around something lying underneath it.

Oh _bugger_!

‘Bilbo, take that thrice-damned thing off,’ Thorin growled. When Bilbo hesitated to comply Thorin rose from the chair, strode over and reached for the chain around Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo fought him ineffectively, managing little except a kick to Thorin’s thigh which Thorin chose to ignore. Quickly unclasping the chain, he pulled it away from Bilbo and threw the ring into the corner of the room. Then he gave Bilbo a gentle shake that, thankfully, seemed to snap him back to his senses.

‘Oh, Valar,’ Bilbo groaned when his face cleared. ‘Not again.’

‘You’ve been wearing it all the time?’ Thorin asked him worriedly.

‘I’ve had to,’ Bilbo said weakly. ‘I daren’t leave it unattended, Thorin, not after what happened with Thengel.’

That, of course, required an explanation. When it was done Thorin could understand Bilbo’s concern. He would not want to leave the ring lying around among all these men.

Then again, he did not want Bilbo wearing it either.

‘You did not notice what it was up to?’ Thorin asked, wishing he could find a less accusatory way of phrasing the question.

‘It has been flashing hot and cold, whispering silly little things into my mind,’ Bilbo told him wearily. ‘Distractions, maybe, so I did not notice what it was really up to. It is not as if I am not angry with Dwalin anyway!’

‘Not so furious you wish him dead, though,’ Thorin stated. Bilbo nodded reluctantly.

‘I was not far off to begin with,’ he said, sighing. ‘I do not understand what he was thinking in the slightest, Thorin.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Thorin countered. ‘We both understand, we just do not want to. When you are fighting a war you send whichever soldiers you think are best suited for the battle. Until you get desperate. Then you send them all.’

‘I will still have a great deal to say to him when we meet again,’ Bilbo stated irritably. Thorin braced himself briefly, then spoke again.

‘Even if I ask you not to?’ he asked Bilbo carefully. Bilbo’s head shot up and he stared at Thorin incredulously.

‘You are not actually asking that of me?’ he said slowly.

‘I am,’ Thorin forced himself to answer. ‘Bilbo,’ he tried again when his hobbit started to shake his head, ‘you know how much Dwalin loves Frodo. You do,’ he insisted when Bilbo seemed likely to argue. ‘It will kill him to think he did Frodo real harm by deciding to send him along. I cannot stop him finding out, but I would ask that you do not pour salt into the wound. I do not wish to see him eaten up with guilt over this.’

‘He is not as dramatic as you,’ Bilbo muttered. ‘I’m sure he would survive.’

“If he dies then not even my own death will be punishment enough,” Thorin said, holding Bilbo’s eyes. ‘His words, Bilbo. Not mine.’

‘But Frodo is not dead,’ Bilbo replied. ‘Seriously wounded, perhaps, but not dead. What does Dwalin care for that?’

‘I think we have spent too long together, bâhuh,’ Thorin said wryly. ‘You are beginning to sound like me. He cares a great deal, as you well know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Bilbo said finally. ‘It is easier to be angry with him, though.’

‘It is always easier to be angry with Dwalin,’ Thorin informed him. ‘It prevents you from having to admit he might be right. I loathe it when he is right about things.’

Bilbo said nothing in reply and Thorin leant against the side of the chair, rather than returning to his own.

‘Is he right?’ Bilbo asked, when the silence had stretched so long Thorin thought the conversation might be over.

‘I think so,’ Thorin answered. ‘The boys think so too. Frodo is less sure, but then we cannot expect him to be otherwise. We all doubt ourselves at times, particularly after something like this has happened.’

‘Running away from a dragon,’ Bilbo murmured contemplatively, mind caught up in memories. ‘If that does not make you doubt yourself nothing will.’

‘What did we tell you then?’ Thorin asked.

‘That everyone feels that way after their first battle,’ he answered instead, letting his head drop back against the chair.

‘Frodo has had his first battle,’ Thorin said evenly, resting his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. ‘Like your battle with Smaug it was a little less than conventional, but he has survived it. Now we need to see that he continues surviving it. That is more important than punishing Dwalin, I think.’

‘Very well, then,’ Bilbo agreed, after a brief pause. ‘Very well. I will promise not to murder Dwalin, or to tear the strip off him which he so richly deserves to lose. Let us focus on getting Frodo to the end of this in one piece instead.’

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bâhuh = my friend (I believe, one of my readers very helpfully found the word for me a while back)


	32. Hat Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruman faces the consequences of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life has finally stopped being crazy, so have a chapter. I enjoyed writing this one. I hope you enjoy reading it as much!

Chapter Thirty-One: Hat Trick

‘Do you often contemplate chairs with such focus, Prince Kíli?’ Thengel’s daughter asked as she approached, pausing next to him. Kíli had been surveying the item in question for a few minutes, but turned his attention to her instead when she spoke.

‘Chairs are important things, my lady,’ he responded solemnly. ‘Particularly when you are in a city of Men.’

Now Olwyn simply looked confused. Sometimes Kíli forgot that not everyone was used to his family’s sense of humour.

‘A dwarf in a city of Men has to think very carefully about his dignity,’ Kíli explained gravely. ‘This chair, for example, is tall enough that I can’t just sit on it. I’m probably going to have to jump up and then scramble my way onto the seat. That, of course, is a dangerous thing to do. If I catch it at the wrong angle it will tip over and dump me on the floor, which would do even more damage to my dignity than just being too short to sit on it. I was trying to think of the best way of doing things without causing myself huge embarrassment.’

By the time he came to the end of this explanation Olywn was hiding a smile behind her hand and clearly trying to suppress her giggles. Kíli smiled widely. Making people laugh was one of his favourite things to do. Right now it was something to take his mind off their various problems.

‘Would it not have been easier to find another seat, Your Highness?’ Olwyn queried with mirth clear in her voice.

‘Ah, but that would be admitting defeat,’ Kíli exclaimed with mock grandeur. ‘The line of Durin never admits defeat!’ Olwyn succumbed to laughter again and Kíli waited patiently for it to end.

‘My father and King Thorin asked me to find you, Prince Kíli,’ Olwyn said when she had managed to regain her composure. ‘I believe that you will all be on your way soon.’

‘Finally,’ Kíli said with relief. ‘It is not that I do not trust in my friend’s ability to survive a wizard,’ he added as they began to walk together. ‘It is just that he’s very good at… driving people to distraction just by speaking. Or existing.’

‘So Lady Sigrid was telling me,’ Olwyn smiled. ‘Did he really tell King Thranduil that you had brought him shiny things?’

‘Oh, that is the least of his feats, Lady Olwyn,’ Kíli said happily, even as his mind was running through the next steps of their journey. ‘The best one was much more impressive than that…’

***

Thorin had flatly refused to allow Bilbo to wear the ring again once it had been removed. When Bilbo had protested that they could not just leave it unattended, he had produced a thick leather cloth, wrapped the ring up and then secured it in a belt pouch, which he hung off Bilbo’s belt.

‘It is not perfect,’ Thorin said. ‘Then again nothing would be. Better it is in there than next to your skin.’

‘We do not know that proximity makes it worse,’ Bilbo pointed out, rather patiently he thought, given how high-handed Thorin was being. Thorin just looked at him.

‘We do not know that it does not, either,’ Thorin replied, ‘and we do know that you have been wearing it around your neck and have had serious problems with it. Thus, the pouch.’

‘I had it in my pocket before Lothlórien,’ Bilbo argued. He had, after all. There was no need for Thorin to sound so condescending.

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin said firmly. ‘Is there any reason it cannot go in the belt pouch?’

‘None that I can think of,’ Bilbo answered.

‘Then why are we arguing about this?’

Bilbo thought for a moment. Then he reached for his tunic and slid it on over his head without answering.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Thorin muttered. Bilbo chose not to say anything, only because giving Thorin a response would be letting him win.

Instead, he decided to change the subject.

‘Sigrid and Alnir go to Isengard,’ he said to Thorin. ‘Fíli, Kíli, Legolas and I go to Mordor. Where will you go?’

Bilbo thought he knew the answer, but it never hurt to confirm these things. Sometimes Thorin got ideas into his head which made sense to no one but him. Well, him, Fíli and Kíli, normally. It was a Durin way of thinking, Dís had declared. A sensible idea taken in a direction insensible to anyone without Durin logic.

‘To Mordor, of course,’ Thorin said, borrowing Bilbo’s best “please do not be utterly stupid, Thorin” tone. ‘Did you think I had come after the lot of you so I could undertake a walking tour of Middle Earth?’

‘When it is you one never really knows,’ Bilbo said airily. Thorin glared at him.

‘Well “one” can be very certain that I will be keeping a very close eye on him and all his various extras,’ he said firmly. Then he winced. ‘Let us pretend I said that in a way which made sense,’ he told Bilbo. Bilbo nodded. He had heard worse. Bofur could do things to grammar which should be considered crimes.

‘Do you think they will be alright?’ Bilbo asked. ‘Bofur, Sigrid and Alnir,’ he clarified. ‘I know that they will have the Rohirrim and the ents and Lothlórien’s elves to help them but…’

‘But you think three dwarves, one elf and a pair of hobbits might make all the difference?’ Thorin teased gently.

‘We are expecting the three dwarves, one elf and pair of hobbits to destroy the ring and save Middle Earth,’ Bilbo pointed out.

‘Hmm, but that is a very different sort of mission,’ Thorin stated. ‘They will be fine, Bilbo. They were chosen for this because of their experience and they will have a great deal of help. Saruman might have taken Gandalf and Bofur captive but I do not imagine for a minute that he expected such foes to be arrayed against him. He will doubtless regret much when he realises the consequences of his actions.’

Bilbo hoped Thorin was right. Not that he did not agree with his friend, but he was reluctant to place too much faith in what should happen these days. It seemed to have very little relation to what actually happened. Well, he thought to himself firmly, they would get a move on and destroy this ring and maybe that would start to change. At the very least it would take one more evil away. Bilbo was beginning to think that this was meant to be his life’s work. Some hobbits grew wonderful vegetable gardens. Some compiled genealogies stretching back generations. Bilbo Baggins would clear evils out of the world one by one. Like particularly annoying cobwebs in dark corners, something he had always been on the watch for in Bag End as well.

By this time Bilbo and Thorin had exited Bilbo’s rooms and were making their way to the chamber which had become the Fellowship’s informal meeting room in the last day or two. With all of Thengel’s preparations as complete as he could make them, all the King could do was wait for his Riders to arrive. One man had been dispatched to ride north in the direction of Lothlórien and alert Celeborn so that the armies would march together.

Now there was nothing for Bilbo and his fellows to do but take their leave and be on their way. Thorin had told them that Erebor’s forces were already preparing to march and that those of Rivendell, the Woodland Realm and Dale would not be far behind. Alnir had been certain that Eric’s small militia would march alongside Bard’s army, so now the Fellowship would need to make sure they were in place at the right time.

Entering the meeting room Bilbo quickly took stock. Fíli, Frodo and Legolas had their packs in one corner and were steadily removing, checking and then repacking everything in them. Bilbo’s own pack had been purloined by Frodo earlier that morning and this was also being checked. Sigrid and Alnir stood close by and were speaking quietly to one another, though they soon expanded their conversation to include Théoden, who had headed towards them once his conversation with his father was complete. Alnir slung an arm around the Prince’s shoulders and began to gesture with his other hand. After a few moments Bilbo realised he was offering Théoden advice on his swordcraft and Legolas threw a comment or two in as they continued.

Of Kíli there seemed to be no sign, or not yet at least, and Bilbo pushed back an instinctive feeling of concern. Even without his favourite partner in crime Kíli could get up to terrible mischief when left alone, but he surely knew better than to start on such a day.

Thorin had moved to speak to Thengel as soon as they entered and, just as Kíli was led through the door by Princess Olwyn, Thorin raised his voice and called for their attention.

‘Fíli, do we have all we need?’ was his first question. Fíli nodded, his hands still running over Frodo’s blade in a final check. Even as he answered, he passed it to Frodo with a pointed tap on a small nick he had discovered.

‘We’ve enough provisions to last us a few weeks, if we’re careful,’ he told Thorin. ‘That’s as much as we can carry, but Kíli and Legolas can hunt for more as we go and Bilbo has a fairly good idea of which plants are edible. The only thing I would like to have is a new flint. Kíli’s appears to have gone for a walk.’

Kíli rolled his eyes at his brother, but nodded in agreement. Bilbo was not surprised. Kíli’s habit of flicking things in his hands when he was bored had led to any number of items being misplaced.

‘That I am sure we can spare,’ Thengel told them. Even as he said so Odhrán stepped forward and handed the object in question to Kíli, who smiled his thanks and pointedly tucked the flint into his belt pouch.

‘In that case, I do believe all that is left is for us to say farewell,’ Thengel continued, ‘and to wish the six of you luck on your journey. We will make sure that you need not worry about Saruman’s filth following you.’

Thorin nodded and clasped Thengel’s forearm, presumably saying something polite in turn. Bilbo was too busy moving to hug Sigrid and Alnir to pay much attention.

‘You will be careful?’ he said to Sigrid anxiously as he did so.

‘We are always careful,’ Sigrid responded, giving a soft smile at Bilbo’s sceptical expression. ‘As careful as anyone can be in battle. You needn’t fear, Bilbo. I have no intention of being injured before I’ve had chance to get my hands on Gandalf and Bofur and give them the scolding of their lives for scaring us so.’

‘Just you mind you don’t get injured _after_ you get hold of them, and I’ll have no need to give a scolding of my own,’ Bilbo warned and she smiled again.

Bilbo had to wait some moments before he could utter the same warning to Alnir because Legolas had beaten him to it. Instead he stood by as Thorin joined them and more goodbyes were said. It seemed odd, really, to be doing this again. The last time they had parted Bilbo had not expected to see his human friends for a long time. At least this time he knew they would not face their dangers alone.

***

With Bilbo and the others off on their way Sigrid’s days seemed to slow to a crawl. Common sense and experience told her that to march without all of their forces would be completely idiotic. Her instincts shouted that they needed to go, and go now, that Gandalf and Bofur had been in danger too long and that any delay could be fatal for them.

The result was that she trained endlessly during the day, trying to work herself into exhaustion so that she would sleep, and that her evenings were spent pacing back and forth for the same reason. A few days of this behaviour were enough for Alnir to put his foot down.

As Sigrid passed him on her way to the fireplace in Thengel’s parlour, to which they were invited after dinner each evening, Alnir reached out, grasped her hand and pulled. Off guard, Sigrid lost her balance and tumbled into the chair he was sitting in.

‘There,’ Alnir said firmly as he rearranged her slightly, locking one arm around her waist. ‘Now for pity’s sake _sit still_ , Sigrid. You’re making me dizzy and you’re on your way to wearing a hole in Thengel’s very beautiful rug.’

Sigrid glared balefully at him, wishing that the expression worked as well on Alnir as it did on Bain and Tilda. Unfortunately Alnir was too thick-skulled for a glare to have any real impact. He had, in his mind, found a sensible course of action and what Sigrid thought of it was neither here nor there.

‘Let me go,’ she told him, a threatening note in her voice. Alnir looked at her innocently.

‘Will you stop pacing if I do?’ he asked. Sigrid huffed, then decided she’d been spending too much time with Gandalf.

‘Don’t be a pain, Alnir,’ she responded. ‘Let me up.’ She braced her feet on the floor and pushed when it became clear he wasn’t going to be obey, but such was the strength of his grip on her that she only succeeded in lifting them about an inch before she realised it was useless and gave up.

Not the desired effect.

A staring match which lasted a minute or two ensued, and Sigrid realised she was not going to win this particular battle. She sighed and rolled her eyes, then conceded.

‘Yes, alright, I will stop pacing. Let me go.’

Alnir did so almost instantly and they somehow managed to rearrange themselves so that Alnir was standing and Sigrid sat in their chair alone without anyone ending up on the floor. Alnir moved away to speak to Théoden and Sigrid continued to glare irritably at his back until Morwen joined her.

‘I fear I have been very ill-mannered, Sigrid,’ she began. They had dropped the titles some days ago, when Morwen suggested that they were no longer necessary. ‘Had I realised that you were betrothed to Alnir I would not have allowed Théoden to disturb you with his fancy. I had been turning a blind eye up until now because I was quite relieved he had chosen a sensible woman for his first infatuation.’

Sigrid had once spent the best part of an hour staring at the great clock in Erebor’s entrance hall, while Bofur explained to her exactly how the different cogs intertwined to ensure that the hands turned as they should. Now she felt a little like that clock when it was broken. The cogs in her mind slipped out of alignment and though she opened her mouth to reply, nothing came out.

‘Théoden has been no trouble to me,’ she said, then cursed inwardly. That was not what she had meant to say. ‘That is, there was no reason I should not spend time with him. He is a good lad and a sensible one. A few of the new recruits in Dale have suffered the same silliness over the years and Théoden has been the best-behaved by far.’ Which was entirely true. At least one of the young lads had found himself in discussion with Bofur and Fíli after an ill-conceived gesture. The poor boy hadn’t been able to look at her for months.

‘Alnir does not take offence?’ Morwen asked curiously. Which was a perfectly sensible question, Sigrid realised, given that she had _still_ not managed to say what she had really meant to.

‘He has no reason to take offence,’ Sigrid finally uttered. ‘Alnir is my brother, Morwen, if not by blood then in heart. We are not betrothed.’

Morwen, for the first time since Sigrid had met her, seemed lost for words.

‘He had you in his lap,’ she managed at last, gesturing helplessly to the chair Sigrid sat in.

‘That is… not uncommon in our family,’ Sigrid tried to explain. ‘It is something of a running joke, in fact, and also something which Fíli regularly does to Kíli and Frodo when he decides they have become too over-excited. Alnir would not have thought anything of it. Neither did I.’

‘Oh,’ was Morwen’s only response. Sigrid could almost see her trying to assimilate this new perspective. In the silence that fell, another thought entered Sigrid’s mind and soon came tripping out of her mouth.

‘Did our usual behaviour not make a betrothal seem unlikely?’ she asked Morwen, then wished she had not phrased it quite like that. It sounded a little accusatory outside her own head.

‘In truth?’ Morwen said. ‘The way the two of you are with one another would support the supposition, not refute it. You are very close, Sigrid.’

‘For the last ten years Bofur and some of our other friends have been teasing us about getting married,’ Sigrid said quietly after a moment, thinking aloud. ‘I always thought it was just silliness.’

‘Well perhaps I do not know what I am talking about,’ Morwen told her wryly. ‘They do say married women start seeing romance around every corner. The misunderstanding is done with now and I am glad to be spared a difficult discussion with my son.’

Instinctively glancing at Théoden and Alnir, who were still deep in conversation, Sigrid caught the shocked and uncomfortable look on Alnir’s face and began to giggle.

‘I would not worry,’ she replied. ‘I think poor Alnir is having it for you.’

***

It was a few more days before they were on the road, and several more after that were spent in travelling to the place where they would meet Lord Celeborn and Treebeard. Despite her attempts to distract herself, the knowledge that she and Alnir had been mistaken for a betrothed pair would not leave her. It stayed just in the back of her mind, a splinter which refused to come out from under the skin.

She hoped, fervently hoped, that this did not mean she would be having a series of awkward conversations with members of her family when she finally returned to Dale.

***

Alnir did not remember, or not in any great detail, the arrival of the elven forces before the Battle of the East. He had been present for only a short time before he was sent back to Lake-town along with Mati and the other young children. Now, the splendour of Lord Celeborn’s forces, which lay in their unity and complete confidence, rather than in any burnished armour or gleaming swords, was palpable. The Rohirrim, raised on tales of the fey and dangerous elves of the Golden Wood, could not seem to tear their eyes from the army before them.

‘Alnir, Sigrid,’ Lady Galadriel said as soon as they were in earshot. ‘I am so glad to see you both well.’ She stepped forward and embraced Sigrid, then did the same to Alnir, much to his surprise. He tried very hard not to choke. The Valar knew Lady Galadriel was no less beautiful now than she had been when first they had met.

Lord Celeborn, whom Alnir had previously found rather difficult to read, gave him a look that was full of simple understanding as they clasped arms. Alnir must have seemed surprised, for he murmured quietly, ‘She has ever had that effect on those she gives her attention to. I am still not entirely sure why she agreed to marry me, though I am ever relieved that she did.’

Alnir realised then that he liked this usually sombre elf a great deal.

‘King Thengel, we are pleased that you will take the field alongside us,’ Celeborn said them, moving to greet the King. ‘The prowess of your people has been known since the days of Éorl. To have such allies is an honour.’

Thengel seemed momentarily lost for words. Alnir could sympathise. He still had moments where he suddenly realised that Thranduil had known not only Girion, but all of his line as long as they had been Lords of Dale. It always made Alnir feel a little self-conscious, until Thranduil teased him out of the mood, as though he was measuring up poorly against the deeds of those long-dead men.

‘Thank you, Lord Celeborn,’ Thengel said at length. ‘We are also honoured to fight alongside the elves of Lothlórien.’

Lady Galadriel must have sensed a lingering unease amongst the Rohirrim nearby, for she gave the tinkling laugh of an elf and smiled at those around her.

‘Men of Rohan, I assure you that whatever you have heard of my talents has been greatly distorted,’ she uttered in a reassuring tone. ‘I have never yet been able to turn any man into a frog, or any other manner of wildlife, nor am I in the habit of ensorcelling the young and leading them off to a life of servitude. My husband disapproves of such things.’

Thankfully the men of Rohan were not so grim as some other nations. A number of them smiled or laughed in the face of this sally, and the tension in their ranks was broken as those at the front passed the comment on to those further back.

‘We had word of your coming last night,’ Lord Celeborn told Thengel as this was taking place. ‘Treebeard left to summon his own people from their work. He tells me they are not many, but once you have seen them I am certain that you will understand how lucky we are to have their aid.’

This much was certainly true. Even the presence of the elves was overwhelmed by the sight of ent after ent exiting Fangorn Forest and moving to stand around their leader. Treebeard had been an impressive sight on his own, when Alnir had met him in the forest, but forty or so of his fellows gathered around him was almost terrifying. Alnir was fervently grateful that the ents were on their side.

The Rohirrim shifted uneasily again and Alnir worried for a moment that they had been faced with too much that was strange to them all at once. Thankfully he underestimated the blood of warriors running through the Rohirrim. Thengel shouted for his Captains, had a brief discussion with them and then commanded that the Rohirrim fall in behind Lord Celeborn’s elves, with the ents taking the lead. The Riders obeyed instantly.

Once they were all organised, Alnir realised the sense in Thengel’s plan. The Rohirrim horses were as well trained as their riders, but they were also creatures of instinct. Even now the proximity of the ents made them restless and the sight of large entish feet right next to them might have driven them to panic.

Nothing liked being squashed, after all.

Including orcs, Alnir thought with a smile. Oh, but he was looking forward to watching the ents squash a few orcs. Sigrid’s own smile made Alnir suspect she was thinking something similar.

***

This dance with Saruman was beginning to get boring, Bofur had to admit. It was not that he did not find the wizard’s thundering tantrums amusing - watching an ancient being throw a fit because he could not get his way was always entertaining. It was just that the wounds which Bofur inevitably suffered as part of that tantrum were beginning to build up.

Alright, so perhaps the bigger problem wasn’t so much boredom as a fear that he could not keep this up much longer.

‘Idiot dwarf,’ Gandalf muttered grumpily as he cleaned yet another gash on the side of Bofur’s head. ‘If you did not provoke him so he would not hit you.’

‘If I did not provoke him he would realise that I have nothing to tell him that he would consider to be of use,’ Bofur corrected, ‘and I would quickly find myself dead. Saruman is certain that Fíli and Kíli have some plan to use the ring against him. His orcs dare not attack Edoras directly, especially when he believes the lads have convinced Thengel to raise his army, so he cannot pre-empt them and he is desperate to know what exactly the plan is so that he can counter it. The more I refuse to respond, the more convinced he is that I know what they are up to.’

‘When any sensible man of reason could see that what Fíli and Kíli are actually doing, or rather what Bilbo is actually doing, is trying to stay well clear of Sauron’s notice. Raising armies, indeed.’

‘It is what Saruman is doing,’ Bofur pointed out. ‘People almost always assume that others will react to a situation exactly as they would.’

‘In which case one wonders why Saruman feels he needs you at all,’ Gandalf said shortly. ‘He need only plan for whatever it is he would do.’

‘Thus the army downstairs,’ Bofur pointed out, gesturing off the edge of their homely platform. ‘What he’s worried about is if they have learned to use the ring. He knows the strength of Sauron’s magic. He fears that strength in the hands of his enemies.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Gandalf sighed. ‘I grow tired of this waiting and ill-tempered with it.’

It was not an apology for rehashing this subject every time Bofur returned from Saruman’s clutches, but it was as close as Bofur was going to get.

‘It’s alright,’ he responded breezily. ‘I hadn’t noticed any big difference from your normal temperament.’ Gandalf gave him a sour glance in return but his eyes, once they were resting upon Bofur again, were worried.

He must look even worse than he thought.

Resting his hand against the stone of the tower, Bofur let his stone-sense sink down through the rock to assure himself that all was as well as it could be. The stone here saddened him. Steeped in thousands of years of pure magic, it still had not become accustomed to the tramp of orcish boots, or the attack of Saruman’s new, dark spells. The stone… flinched, for want of a better word, with every indignity it suffered and Bofur wished he could heal the damage. Perhaps when the war was done and Saruman cast down he would do just that. There had to be a way.

‘All’s well below,’ Bofur said blandly, having checked for nearby orcs or tantrum-throwing wizards. ‘It might not hurt to try again.’

Gandalf had tested his magic every day since Bofur’s arrival. For the first several days there had been nothing at all, or so the wizard had told Bofur. Wizardly magic not being his specialty, Bofur wasn’t entirely sure what Gandalf was searching for.

Then, a few days ago, the first spark. It had only lasted a second, a flame flickering on the end of Gandalf’s finger before being extinguished by a gust of wind. When he had tried again Gandalf had been unable to raise so much as a cinder, but his power had grown little by little as the days passed.

It was not enough to contend with Saruman’s power, but it was more than they had had.

Today Gandalf managed a tornado in the palm of his hand, which he kept small but told Bofur he could have made bigger if needed.

‘It is windy anyway,’ he informed Bofur as he stared at the evidence of his spell. ‘If one is to use the elements, it is always best to comply with their current preference.’

‘You mean that air which is blowing about anyway is easier to turn into one of those?’ Bofur queried, pointing at the tornado.

‘Yes,’ Gandalf answered with a rare smile. ‘That is exactly what I mean.’

Then their conversation was interrupted by a noise that made Bofur’s face crease into the widest grin he had given in months.

Horns. The horns of war, and not just those of the Rohirrim.

‘Looks like our reinforcements have arrived at last,’ he said to Gandalf as he moved towards the edge of the platform to peer into the distance. Gandalf also moved, joining him, and together they looked out. There, maybe a mile or two away, was an army.

‘Not just one army,’ Gandalf murmured, making Bofur wonder if he had said part of that aloud. ‘That is Lord Celeborn and his archers, as well as the Rohirrim.’

‘Your eyes are better than mine,’ Bofur replied, still peering forward. ‘All I can see is a bunch of ants. Oh, except those. Those aren’t ants.’

‘No,’ Gandalf agreed, smiling fully now, ‘those are ents. They have come to repay Saruman his kindness, I imagine.’

‘Good lads,’ Bofur said, though those he was aiming the comment at could not possibly have heard him. ‘Give those orcs a battering.’

Down below the first cries of alarm could be heard. The orcs, never exactly a peaceful sort, began to roar orders, often conflicting ones from what Bofur could tell. A number of orcs seemed to run one way as commanded by one orc, then another when the order was countermanded. He found himself laughing, though his jaw ached enough that he wished a moment later he hadn’t.

‘This is going to be fun.’

***

Isengard loomed over them as the army approached Saruman’s fortress, but oddly Sigrid discovered that she was not afraid. The nerves of battle, which she had learned to master long ago, bubbled under the surface, but they were no more than nerves.

Perhaps the fear had burnt itself out. Perhaps it was simply easier to ignore when she was finally, finally able to do something.

Gandalf and Bofur were in that tower. Hopefully alive. Possibly dead. That she could not change, except by getting to them as quickly as possible.

Anything that got in her way, including that orcish horde, was simply an obstacle to be removed.

‘Here,’ a gentle voice said, interrupting Sigrid’s thoughts. ‘I think you will need this.’

Lady Galadriel was holding out another of the cloaks that she had given them in Lothlórien, cloaks which could disguise the wearer from notice if they were careful. Sigrid’s had been torn by one of Saruman’s orcs just outside Fangorn.

‘My lady?’ Sigrid asked curiously, unsure what Lady Galadriel meant by the comment. Sigrid was wearing a Rohirrim cloak and the day was not terribly cold.

‘Your feet will follow the direction your heart wishes to take,’ Lady Galadriel told her, ‘whatever your mind has to say on the matter. So, we will say that you are following my Lord’s advice and offering me your protection as I try to get to Orthanc, and you will put that on, in the hope that we will attract a little less notice.’

Then Sigrid understood. Lady Galadriel knew. She wondered how, had a suspicion but did not wish to utter it. Insulting Lady Galadriel when she was about to help them defeat Saruman would be unwise.

Of course, she had not counted on Lady Galadriel’s ability to read her face.

‘I did not pry, my dear,’ Lady Galadriel assured her, ‘but, as with many human emotions, yours was so loud I would have had to be deaf to miss it. As was his,’ she continued, looking up at Isengard once more. ‘You are both very fortunate.’

‘But…’ Sigrid began, then pushed the thoughts aside. They were on the edge of battle. This could wait. Instead she took the cloak which Lady Galadriel had extended to her again and quickly replaced the one she wore.

As the ents roared a challenge, and the orcs screamed one back, Galadriel drew her horse up and Sigrid followed her lead. Without asking, Alnir did the same, as did the blond elf who had warned them of the orc attack in Lothlórien.

‘My loyal Haldir,’ Galadriel said as a quick introduction, ‘who leads my guard during battle. Celeborn worries so if I am not protected.’

Haldir bowed, as did those he led, and Sigrid gave her own in return. They were archers like herself, though they bore swords as well. Sigrid’s short blades, forged for her as a gift from Erebor on her coming of age, were still in their sheaths and she held her bow in her hands. Alnir, who had never been a great fan of archery, fell in next to Lady Galadriel.

‘You shoot them, I’ll deal with anything you miss,’ he told Sigrid firmly. She nodded, thankful he had aimed the comment at her alone. Implying that the elves might miss a shot seemed like a dangerous thing to do.

For the first ten minutes or so their journey was easy. The ents were laying waste to Isengard with abandon, breaking rock with their hands and using the broken pieces to bowl over any orcs which dared to oppose them. Sigrid noticed with some concern that one ent was being climbed by a group of the more intelligent orcs, who had clearly decided that the best thing to do was bring it to the floor. Then she saw the orcs in question begin to sprout arrows and knew that Lord Celeborn’s archers were keeping watch.

The Rohirrim were, as they had been when she fought alongside them previously, formidable foes. They grouped themselves together, charging ten or twenty abreast at any group of orcs which appeared to be rallying and breaking their lines with the force of the charge. Some of the Riders were dragged from their mounts, one or two thrown, and one poor, unlucky man feel to his death into one of the fire pits when an orc crippled his mount. Otherwise they were holding their own, and Sigrid whispered prayers to Mahal for their peace and protection.

Then a small group of orcs noticed her own party and her part in the battle began. Nocking an arrow she chose her shots carefully, seeing that the elves were a very efficient forward guard. Rather than concerning herself with those her elven companions had already engaged, Sigrid kept an eye out for any orcs trying to flank them. She had shot five before one got close enough to cause her concern, and that was because she had hit its shoulder instead of firing her arrow through its heart. She was not impressed. Clearly she still needed more practice.

Alnir, who had been holding back as agreed, now stepped forward and cut the orc off before it could get with ten feet of Lady Galadriel. He stabbed at the orc’s wounded shoulder, encouraging it to guard that area, then cut instead at its belly and left it trying frantically to hold its guts in. Not a clean kill, but an effective removal of an opponent.

Now Lady Galadriel forged ahead determinedly, eyes fixed on something towards the top of Orthanc which Sigrid could not make out. Though she did not signal to Haldir he called to his archers and they reformed their guard, the orcs now lying dead or dying on the ground.

After that the battle became more difficult. The closer they got to Orthanc, the greater the number of orcs they had to face. At one point Haldir ordered them all to crouch and be still, hoods drawn over their heads, as a large party of orcs hurtled across the courtyard to engage a group of ents. The cloaks stood them in good stead and they passed unnoticed, able to move on some moments later.

‘We must move quickly,’ Lady Galadriel called to Haldir some moments later. ‘Treebeard means to break the dam and we need to get inside Orthanc before he does.’

‘The others,’ Alnir exclaimed involuntarily, keeping his voice low but clearly concerned. Sigrid shared that concern. They were mid-battle, most of their forces directly in the path of the river. They would _all_ drown if Treebeard went ahead with his plan.

‘Celeborn will call a retreat,’ Galadriel told them, ‘he means to draw our forces out of the river’s path before it is unleashed.’

‘The wounded?’ Sigrid asked sharply. Galadriel put a hand on her arm to calm her.

‘The ents will see to them. There are not so many, not with the orcs taken unawares. It will all be well, child. This way the pits below will be flooded. There are many more orcs down there, we must dispose of them if this is not to become a battle of attrition.’

Sigrid hoped it would be well, but they could not stop now. Their aim was to get inside Orthanc, to deal with Saruman. They could not retreat. Instead they must go up.

***

Bofur had been watching the battle below with fascination, impressed by all of their allies but especially by the ents. The destruction they could cause with only their hands was truly astonishing.

This line of thought was brought to an abrupt end when the trapdoor leading to Orthanc’s roof flew open and Saruman himself came storming through, his face warped with fury.

‘You!’ he bellowed as he strode forward. ‘This is your doing.’ His eyes were focused on Gandalf, who met them calmly.

‘And if it was?’ Gandalf asked evenly. ‘Shouting about whose fault it is will not make that army disappear, Saruman. You are surrounded.’

Saruman snarled, raising his staff suddenly and unexpectedly and arcing it towards Gandalf’s head. Bofur heard himself let out a cry of alarm, even as Gandalf raised his hand and stopped the staff dead with an invisible barrier. Saruman let out another shout, drawing his staff back and striking out again. Gandalf’s barrier held, but it was a near thing. He was already losing strength, Bofur knew. His magic had not recovered enough.

With little other choice Bofur threw himself forward, as he had done when facing Thengel some weeks ago, and tried to knock Saruman to the floor. He was, if he was honest, half-hoping the wizard would fall off the edge of the platform and so bring about his own doom.

No such luck. Saruman remained on his feet, though he was unbalanced enough that he had to use the staff for support and so ceased aiming it at Gandalf. Once he was steady again he turned on Bofur, apparently dismissing Gandalf for the moment. Perhaps he thought that the wizard’s failing magic would make him the easier target.

‘Well, I will not need you now, will I?’ Saruman hissed at Bofur, crouching slightly to lean over Bofur’s body, prone where it had hit the floor. Bofur’s ears had started to ring slightly, perhaps the result of jolting a head which had taken a good few knocks in the last little while.

‘Perhaps it is time I gave you what you deserved, dwarf,’ Saruman continued, flinging out a hand to stop Gandalf’s attempt at an advance. Gandalf skidded across the platform, only barely stopping himself before _he_ tumbled over the edge, then lay still.

‘Yes, I think it is more than time. Pity I could not save you until I had hold of that chit who travels with you or the hobbit you and your king are so fond of. They would have made interesting toys to play with, and I would have enjoyed seeing your reacti….’

Saruman stopped abruptly, taking his eyes from Bofur’s face to stare down at his own body in shock. Protruding from his chest, not quite on centre but not bad, if Bofur did say so himself, was Bofur’s stiletto. The white wizard choked once, shuddered and then collapsed.

‘That’s the problem with you mighty folk,’ Bofur told him gravely, as he withdrew his blade. ‘You always underestimate the hat.’

Then he pushed himself to his feet, rearranged the angle of Saruman’s fallen body and calmly kicked the wizard off the edge of his tower.

Just in time for water to come gushing down the hill and submerge all of Saruman’s evil.

A fitting end, in Bofur’s opinion. He paused a moment to content himself that Saruman had, in fact, been caught in the flood, then raised his hand and returned his blade to its usual place, tucked behind the brim of his hat.

A job well done.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should apologise for the title of this chapter. It's a terrible pun, but once it was stuck in my head nothing better could fight its way in :D


	33. Said and Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two in the Fellowship who really need to have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say a very big thank you to all the people who left such lovely comments on the last chapter. You helped to spark the idea for this chapter and get it onto the page more quickly than normal. Also, thanks as always to ISeeFire for her quick beta and for finding those stray letters I'd misplaced :D
> 
> This chapter is focused on Sigrid and Bofur almost entirely. Which handily means that if the romance isn't your cup of tea, you can skip this one and you won't have missed a great deal. For the rest of you, enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Two: Said and Done

Thankfully Sigrid and her companions managed to enter Orthanc before the dam was broken and, when they stopped to watch the chaos unfold from a window, it seemed that Lord Celeborn’s retreat had succeeded in getting their forces out of harm’s way. Some of the orcs had also escaped the deluge as they followed, but Sigrid did not expect them to last long. Not considering how steadily their numbers were being winnowed away.

Sigrid was startled out of these thoughts by a sudden shout from Alnir, who was pointing through the window at something that Sigrid could not see, even when she followed the line of his arm.

‘Was that…?’ Alnir asked incredulously.

‘It did look like…’ one of the elves responded, looking at the same spot. Sigrid was no more enlightened, until Lady Galadriel drew her attention.

‘It was,’ the Lady of Lothlórien agreed, opening her eyes to show a saddened expression. ‘Saruman has been dealt with. His role here is at an end.’

‘Gandalf must still be alive,’ another of the elves said, ‘and further up than this.’

‘Then I suggest that we climb,’ Lady Galadriel replied, sadness gone and a small smile taking its place. ‘He will doubtless be most wroth with us for being so tardy.’

So they did, following the stairs through Orthanc, up and up and up. Once they stopped to deal with a group of orcs, perhaps Saruman’s commanders or a bodyguard of sorts. Sigrid was not fond of combat in such a confined space but thankfully they took no greater wounds than a cut on the cheek of one of the elves, quickly healed by his Lady.

After that their progress was quicker, the need to search for Gandalf and Bofur negated by Lady Galadriel’s conviction that they were being held further up. Sigrid would admit to being out of breath by the time they reached the top of the tower. A silly part of her mind wondered if that had contributed to Saruman’s decision to ignore the summons of his former allies – he had simply become tired and going up and down all these stairs. She hushed the thought absent-mindedly, still focused on trying to get air back into her lungs without stopping to rest.

‘And I thought the walk to Fangorn was bad,’ Alnir puffed beside her. The elves were politely trying to hide their amusement at Sigrid and Alnir’s lack of stamina.

‘This time I don’t think horses would have helped,’ Sigrid told him, pushing ahead with the knowledge that Bofur was somewhere nearby to sustain her. ‘Come on,’ she continued, grabbing Alnir’s arm, ‘keep moving.’

‘Slave-driver,’ was Alnir’s response, but he did keep pace with her.

Then, finally, they had arrived at Saruman’s study, through which Orthanc’s highest point could be reached. As they entered the room Sigrid heard a shout from above.

‘If you’re an orc, you can piss right off again,’ a voice called. ‘If you aren’t an orc, come and help me with the wizard. He’s as much use as a pickaxe made of daisies at the moment.’

‘Bofur!’ Alnir and Sigrid shouted at the same time, hurrying forward and climbing the few remaining steps which led to the trapdoor. Alnir shoved it open and they rushed out to find Bofur sat nearby with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

‘Do you mean you wouldn’t be able to tell if we were orcs or not?’ Sigrid asked him, relief flooding through her and making her flippant. ‘Where’s that stone-sense you’re so proud of?’ Bofur laughed loudly.

‘There’s my lass,’ he said cheerfully, ‘hurrying all this way to rescue me. I knew you would.’

‘Not before time by the look of you,’ Sigrid answered. ‘Mahal, Bofur, what have you been doing?’

‘Doing? Me? Nothing. Gandalf’s the one been getting himself knocked unconscious. You’d best have a look at him, my lady,’ Bofur continued, looking at Lady Galadriel. ‘He’s still breathing and all, but he doesn’t seem to want to wake from that nap of his.’

By the time he had finished Galadriel was already knelt at Gandalf’s side, reassuring herself that all was well. She did not speak for almost a minute, her face a mask of concentration. Then she let out a soft sigh of relief.

‘He will recover,’ she told them all. ‘His magic is entirely depleted, but we will be able to help with that once we have him in Lothlórien once more. Defeating Saruman must have taken all of his strength.’

‘He didn’t have much of that to begin with, my lady,’ Bofur informed her. ‘That little trick he pulled outside Fangorn had sapped most of what he had. He was managing little windstorms but not much more.’

‘Then how, exactly, did he manage to counter Saruman well enough to throw him off this tower?’ Haldir demanded.

Bofur did something then that was so rare Sigrid couldn’t quite believe her eyes. He blushed.

‘Ah, well,’ he said, not finishing the sentence.

Lady Galadriel’s smile suddenly widened until she was almost beaming.

‘Gandalf did not,’ she said, in a very impressed tone. ‘You did, did you not, Master Bofur?’

‘I might have given the sod – beg your pardon, my lady, I mean Saruman – a bit of a push,’ Bofur responded, tugging on one side of his hat. That gesture sparked Sigrid’s memory.

‘Did that push have something to do with your stiletto, Bofur?’ she asked pointedly.

‘Might have done,’ he muttered. Sigrid could not help it. She began to laugh.

‘You choose the strangest moments for modesty, my friend,’ she told him, unable to keep the affection from her voice.

‘Gandalf was distracting him for me,’ Bofur said. ‘It was a joint effort.’

‘Which still means that you had a large part in vanquishing our enemy,’ Lady Galadriel said calmly. ‘My thanks, Master Bofur.’

Bofur was rapidly recovering from his brief embarrassment, as become clear from his next words.

‘Now, I like that! Thorin gets to be Oakenshield, perhaps I’ll use Vanquisher. It has quite the ring to it!’

‘Bofur?’ Sigrid said to get his attention. When he looked at her questioningly she attempted to appear stern. ‘How many times did Saruman hit your head?’

‘Enough, apparently,’ Alnir stated, rather than waiting for Bofur to reply. Which was probably a good thing. The first wave of Sigrid’s relief was passing and the true extent of Bofur’s injuries was setting in. She sank down beside him and turned his head so that she could look more closely at the worst of them. Alnir caught her eye and then smoothly continued with, ‘Although not so many that he is in any immediate danger. My lady, perhaps we should see to getting Gandalf downstairs. The ents should be able to get to us through the water and he could be placed somewhere more comfortable.’

‘That seems a good idea to me,’ Lady Galadriel responded, a slight twinkle just discernible in her eyes. ‘Haldir, if you would?’

She gestured at Gandalf as she spoke. Instantly Haldir and two more of the elves moved forward and raised Gandalf between them, making their way across the platform and then carefully down the stairs.

‘I do not believe we will be going far tonight,’ Lady Galadriel said to Alnir. ‘It will take some time for the battle to truly end and then my Lord will doubtless command our forces to rest before we begin the work of ensuring that all of the orcs are gone. Perhaps you would keep me company as we wait?’ At this she held out her arm and Alnir, having been well-trained by Halma and Lady Dís in the appropriate courtesies, immediately presented his own for her to take.

‘Wonderful,’ Lady Galadriel said with much satisfaction. Then they were gone.

‘Does it seem like we’ve been abandoned to you?’ Bofur asked Sigrid suspiciously. The only response he received was the weight of her head against his shoulder.

‘Lass?’

***

Bofur was quickly passing from utter relief to a sense of panic.

‘Lass?’ he repeated, trying to angle his head so that he could see Sigrid better. ‘What’s wrong?

‘Nothing,’ was the muffled reply. Then Sigrid straightened again. ‘Nothing. We have not been abandoned. Only left alone to talk.’

‘Did we need to talk?’ Bofur asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected when his rescuers finally arrived, but this sudden change of mood from Sigrid was not it.

‘I think we probably should,’ Sigrid answered. Then she contradicted the statement by saying nothing more. Just as Bofur was about to become really concerned, and possibly try using her name in case that produced a better result, Sigrid sighed wearily and spoke again.

‘I am not going to marry Alnir.’

Bofur paused in a moment of complete confusion. Then he tried to laugh.

‘So you keep telling us, lass. The two of you aren’t all that convincing though. You’ll get there in the end.’

‘No, Bofur,’ she returned so angrily that he nearly jumped with surprise. ‘ _Listen to me_. Alnir and I will not be getting married. Or betrothed. Ever. He is my _brother_ , not the man I wish to marry. Neither of us ever even thought of it, except to try and tell the rest of you that you were being ridiculous.’

‘Truly?’ Bofur found himself asking. Before he had dismissed her protests as… not untruths, exactly. He did not think she would lie to him. More a script that she had been reciting for so long it came instinctively. Mahal knew all of the evidence seemed to disprove the claim that she and Alnir were not in love.

Sigrid’s laugh was a little sour and full of exasperation, a sound Bofur did not like at all.

‘Yes, Bofur, truly,’ she replied, looking him dead in the eye. ‘I have only spent the last twenty years telling you so! I will not be marrying Alnir, or anyone else.’

Then she looked away, but the way she had said it, the utter certainty in her tone, had made Bofur stop and think. This was no idle conversation. Not this time. And if it was not this time, then maybe. Maybe it had never been.

Which meant that he had wasted a good part of the last decade and a half waiting for something that was never going to happen. Bugger all. It was a wonder the lass hadn’t killed him.

He was glad she had not though. For now, for the first time in a long time, he realised that he had a chance. A chance to have the one thing he wanted most. He just had to find a way to tell Sigrid exactly how much of a fool he had been.

Time to gather his courage. Why was it that killing a wizard was so easy, when this was so incredibly difficult?

‘Sigrid, look at me, darlin’,’ he said gently. When she did he tried to smile. ‘Darlin’ once, when you were very young, you gave me the biggest compliment of my life by telling me you loved me. Is that still true?’

‘Of course it’s still true,’ she said slowly, matter-of-fact and with just the smallest amount of… hope, perhaps, in her voice. ‘I am not anywhere near as fickle as you like to think.’

‘I don’t think liking comes into it at all,’ Bofur muttered to himself. Then shook his head at his own behaviour. This was hardly the time to have a strop.

‘I told you then that you were too young,’ he forced himself to say. ‘You _were_ too young, and I had thought that your mind would change with time. When I saw you with Alnir I thought that it had, truly I did. Instead… I have been making you miserable all this time.’

‘I have not been miserable all this time,’ Sigrid protested, so quickly that Bofur would have thought it mere instinct if a little true temper had not coloured her voice. ‘Please don’t paint me as some feather-brained heroine from an epic tale, pining my years away, Bofur. I have my family and my life as Captain of the Guard. I have been happy.’

‘Not all of the time,’ he said with certainty, hearing all the things she wasn’t saying.

‘No one is happy all of the time,’ Sigrid countered. ‘ _Life_ is not happy all of the time.’

‘Tell me you have not been unhappy some of the time just because of me,’ Bofur challenged her, not willing to let the subject go.

‘I cannot and you know it,’ Sigrid said. ‘I wanted you to love me and you didn’t. Yes, it made me unhappy. So did Bain, when he went through that terrible phase. So did Tilda, when we got into that huge row over her betrothal and she announced that dying a sad old maid did not have to be everyone’s fate just because it would be mine.’

‘Yes, but I think that’s the worst part,’ Bofur answered helplessly, shaking his head wryly. ‘I did, lass. I did.’

‘Did?’ Sigrid asked, clearly not putting the whole thing together. ‘Did what?’

‘I did love you, darlin’,’ he said seriously, making sure she could see that he meant it. ‘Not when you were seventeen, of course. Adult amongst your own you might have been, but I am a dwarf, not a man, and you were not an adult to my people. After that, though. Well, things change, don’t they? I just thought Mahal was exercising his sense of humour and finally showing me my One just when she’d stopped loving me.’

Sigrid just looked at him for a long, long time. Then she made a choking noise and buried her head in her hands.

‘Oh no, lass, don’t’ Bofur said helplessly. ‘Don’t cry.’ Mahal but he hated it when she cried. Especially if it was because of him. Awkwardly, given that Sigrid was taller than him, if not by too much, he gathered her up and managed to settle her against him. ‘Hush now, don’t cry.’

She did seem to be making a good effort at stopping, which was a relief because if she did not Bofur might start himself. What a stupid, horrible, heart-breaking mess of a misunderstanding, and all because he had not the sense to trust her judgement over his own.

A minute or two later Sigrid took one last deep breath and rubbed tears from her eyes. Bofur caught a stray one instinctively and she looked up at him and smiled properly. He sighed thankfully.

‘That’s better,’ he said gently. ‘I much prefer that look.’

‘Then you should have given me cause to wear it a while ago,’ she replied, then caught his flinch and immediately apologised.

‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘It is too soon for bad jests.’

‘Though I should be the last to deny anyone a bad jest,’ Bofur said, smiling ruefully himself, ‘perhaps it is a little.’

They sat for a little while in the quiet. If Sigrid was feeling the same as Bofur, she was probably just enjoying contemplation of a future where they were both, finally, marching on the same road. He did try, at one point, to loosen his arms, but found he could not let her go just yet. It was possible he might never be able to, but he knew that was impractical so he ignored the thought.

‘So what now?’ Sigrid asked softly after a while. Bofur felt an answer come to his tongue immediately, took a rare moment to think about it before he blurted it out, then decided to say it anyway.

‘Well, it seems I owe you a proposal,’ he said firmly, ‘seeing as you were so good as to make one to me once. Do you think you could marry me, darlin’? When all this is over and done with? Even if I am an idiot with rock where his mind should be.’

‘I think I could manage that,’ Sigrid said slowly. Then, with assurance, ‘Yes, that sounds like a very good idea indeed. Then the next time you decide to take on a wizard and his orcish army on your own, I might have a better chance of stopping you.’

‘I was waiting for you to arrive before I killed the wizard,’ Bofur pointed out, ‘and I don’t think marriage attaches you to me permanently.’

‘Shut up, Bofur,’ she said with a laugh. Then she shut him up herself.

***

 


	34. Steal Your Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is much to be done if the forces of good are to be ready for what comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're jumping around a bit in this one - I do hope no one gets travel sick :D
> 
> The title, if anyone is interested, comes from 'Hands' by Jewel, which happened to be playing as I was writing one section. The full line is: 'Poverty stole your golden shoes, it didn't steal your laughter, and heartache came to visit me, but I knew it wasn't ever after'. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Steal Your Laughter

‘You are _not_ taking Tári into Mordor!’ Legolas told Thorin firmly as they prepared to leave Rohan. Thorin, who had been focused on ensuring that he had everything he needed before they exited Meduseld and made their way to Edoras’ gates, nearly missed the comment. Then he realised what he had heard and turned to face his elven friend.

‘Of course I am not taking Tári to Mordor,’ he answered slowly. ‘We are trying to hide from Sauron. Your father’s elk is hardly a subtle mount.’

‘If I were you, Thorin Oakenshield,’ Bilbo chipped in, ‘I would consider the implications of your prior actions before jumping on your high horse.’

‘High elk,’ Kíli muttered with a snort. Thorin chose to ignore the aside, other than a faint wish that Kíli would, eventually, grow into a little more dignity.

‘You will have to explain that,’ he said to Bilbo instead. ‘What implications of what prior actions? I do not speak hobbit-ish.’

‘That is not a word!’ Fíli and Frodo exclaimed almost simultaneously. Thorin rolled his eyes.

‘When I wish for your commentary on my conversations, boys, I will ask for it,’ he informed them. Frodo looked slightly abashed. Fíli stuck his tongue out. Thorin sighed and mentally amended his earlier wish to include _both_ of his nephews.

‘I mean,’ Bilbo stated, without paying any attention to the other antics, ‘that you have already ridden Tári all the way here from… wherever it was you had all ended up. It is a little late to be worrying about being conspicuous, don’t you think?’

Legolas made a slightly strangled noise.

‘Not,’ Bilbo hurried to add, ‘that I in any way advocate taking Tári with us, of course.’

Thorin only looked at all of his companions for a moment, before shaking his head.

‘I took Tári because I needed to travel a great distance as fast as possible,’ he said patiently. ‘Now I no longer have the same need, which I would have thought was obvious, and so clearly I will be returning Thranduil’s mount to him. Or rather, sending Tári back to him. I assume that he is capable of finding his way back to the Woodland Realm, Legolas?’

‘Of course,’ Legolas answered quickly.

‘Then I believe that settles the matter, does it not?’ Thorin asked pointedly. Murmurs of agreement greeted him.

‘Good,’ he replied, then began to walk away.

‘This journey is going to be much more fun now!’ Kíli completely failed to whisper behind him. ‘Bilbo can scold Uncle instead of us and, even better, we get to watch.’

‘Kíli, I am just as capable of tying you up and throwing you over the back of a mount as your mother is,’ Thorin called without turning back. ‘Do not think I will not do it.’

***

A very short time later, with Tári safely on his way back to his master, Thorin and the rest of his group exited Edoras with as little fuss as possible. All of their goodbyes had been said before they left the Golden Hall, so now they would just try to avoid being noticed. Thorin still held out some hope that all of the to-ing and fro-ing that the Fellowship had been forced to do had confused Sauron and his black-cloaked lackeys. Mahal knew it would have confused Thorin if he had been watching. His conversations with Bilbo and the others had made it clear that they had gained and lost members of their Fellowship with rather alarming regularity in the few weeks that they had been gone.

There was, of course, a chance that Sauron did not know that they had been in Rohan at all. Thorin thought it a very faint chance, however, and refused to trust in it. Better to prepare for the worst. They would be as stealthy as they could now and would simply have to hope that the large army marching across Rohan in the next few days would prove a good distraction.

That and the armies currently hurrying across the northern section of Middle Earth. They would doubtless be making as much noise as they could to try and gain Sauron’s attention. With Glorfindel involved Thorin was certain of it.

For now, then, Thorin and his fellows would just walk. They would cross the Snowbourn River and head into Anorien, which was sparsely populated and hopefully a very good place to get lost. Metaphorically. Bilbo had their map, which should prevent them from becoming truly lost.

Not that Thorin would admit that aloud. There was no need to make it easy for his nephews to exercise their endlessly smart mouths.

Either way, they were bound for Cair Andros and thence to North Ithilien. After that, they would have to pray for good luck. For what they might find, so close to Sauron’s lair, Thorin did not want to contemplate.

***

Merry loved all of his family, large as it was, even those he did not always like, but none so much as Pippin. Bright, cheerful, carefree Pippin, always ready with a joke or a smile.

Always… until now.

This sombre character Pippin had become was so unfamiliar to Merry that he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him. Their normal ways of talking, of acting, seemed wrong now. Like an old waistcoat in a colour you had once loved, but which now looked garish and odd. Everything he would normally say was too happy, too loud, for the circumstances they found themselves in.

Perhaps Pippin felt the same about him. Merry didn’t feel like he was his old self either. Where once he might have told stories as they travelled, either tales he had heard as a lad or tales of things he and Pippin had done, now he hated to break the silences that fell.

There was someone else who should be listening to those stories. Someone who should be teasing Pippin along with him.

Someone who might never do so again. Would never do so again, Merry was becoming convinced as the days went by.

He felt his eyes begin to fill with tears and blinked them away frantically. He was always on the verge of crying these days. It was infuriating, but nothing seemed to stop it. Not avoiding thinking about Sméagol, which only brought their friend to the front of his mind; not concentrating on their surroundings, which only made him realise he was still looking for Sméagol as if he would suddenly appear from nowhere; not even remembering their happy times, which only reminded him that they would never share such times again.

Angry with someone, furiously so, but not sure who, Merry shoved himself to his feet and stalked away from the small camp they had set up. Dark had fallen and he knew it was foolish to get too far from Strider and Elladan but he couldn’t sit still any longer. He needed to move, to do… something, anything. Anything but think.

He did not realise he had been followed until he came to stop a minute or two later, the burst of anger leaving him as suddenly as it had come, and Pippin spoke up.

‘It’s wrong,’ he said sadly, meeting Merry’s eyes directly when Merry spun around. ‘We should be able to talk to each other,’ he continued when Merry didn’t say anything in return. ‘We always talk to each other.’

‘I can’t think of anything to say,’ Merry confessed involuntarily. ‘Nothing sounds like it should.’

‘I know,’ Pip answered quietly. ‘We aren’t meant to be two anymore. There should be three. But there isn’t and…’ he paused briefly, then forged ahead, ‘and there isn’t ever going to be three again, is there?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Merry said helplessly. ‘I think… Pip, I think he’s gone.’ Merry nearly choked on the sob that rose in his throat, trying to force it back down. Then he saw Pippin’s eyes begin to well up too, and suddenly it was all too much.

‘Pippin,’ he said, then burst into a full fit of tears. Pippin crossed the two steps in an instant, even as he began to cry as well, and then they were leaning against each other as they had that first day, when Sméagol had led the Nazgûl away from them and the last of their naïveté had followed him.

It was several minutes before either of them was in any state to talk again. Even then Merry could think of very little to say. It hurt, and it wasn’t likely to stop hurting any time soon, and all the talking in the world couldn’t change that.

It was Pippin who broke the silence once again, a determined note in his voice. The way that his words followed Merry’s thoughts was a comfort even in the face of all that was happening. Perhaps they weren’t as different now as Merry had believed.

‘We both know it’s going to be like this for a while,’ Pippin told him seriously. ‘We can’t snuff it out and we can’t make it go away any faster. We’re just going to have to be stronger than we’ve had to be before. If nothing sounds right, then we’re just going to have to put up with it being wrong until we work out what normal is again.’

‘We’re travelling across Middle Earth with an elf and the rightful King of Gondor trying to duck Sauron’s Nazgûl,’ Merry reminded him. ‘I think we could be waiting a long time for normal.’

‘Exactly,’ Pippin said firmly. ‘If nothing’s normal, then maybe it doesn’t matter if we aren’t either.’

Any number of people would, if asked, tell you that Pippin was not the sharpest tool in the set. Merry forcibly reminded himself that he should never make the mistake of being one of them. Pip deserved more than that.

‘Alright,’ Merry said instead of voicing these thoughts. ‘Talking about anything that comes to mind it is.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Pip said with a smile which, if not actually cheerful, didn’t ring false either. ‘Mother’s been accusing me of doing that for years anyway.’

The lingering sadness in Pippin’s gaze was something that Merry would never want to see there (nor, he thought, would Sméagol have wanted it there), but at least it didn’t make him feel quite so helpless now. He took Pippin’s hand and began to walk back to the fire, only just spotting Elladan retreating back in that direction as well.

They weren’t safe on this journey, but they were with friends; friends who understood how they felt and why. Looking at it that way, Merry couldn’t think of a better place they could be.

***

‘My lady!’ a voice shouted, giving Dís a start that she ruthlessly suppressed. Quite apart from the potential indignity, it was always a very bad idea to jump with fright when you were stood next to a steep drop. She had been spending a lot of time on the balconies of Erebor of late. It had become the first place most people who wished to speak to her checked. Dís was seriously contemplating moving the councils out here until such time as Thorin came back.

‘Yes?’ she questioned the approaching dwarf. He was a young lad, too young to join the army in truth and putting in time as a runner until he was old enough. Dís made sure to smile at him and hide her edginess. She was rewarded when the young one gave a beaming smile in return.

‘Lieutenant Hûs asks that you come down to the gates, my lady,’ the lad told her. ‘He said that there is a matter that requires your attention.’

‘That,’ a familiar voice said loudly, as an equally familiar form mounted the steps, ‘is because Hûs is a pompous windbag who thinks he’s more important than he actually is. I told him there was no need to send for you. We’re not so far gone we can’t climb a few stairs!’

‘Nori!’ a more youthful voice exclaimed from behind the approaching figure. ‘For Mahal’s sake, can you _try_ not to insult everyone in Erebor before we’ve been here more than half an hour?’

‘If I did not insult them how would Dís know it was me, little brother?’ Nori retorted, sweeping an exaggerated bow as he came to a stop before his Princess.

‘I imagine I would have worked it out,’ Dís said, pointedly tugging on the top point of Nori’s dramatic hairstyle. ‘Tell me you have good news, gentlemen, for if you do not I am going to be extremely cross.’

Ori, she saw, was gently shooing the runner away, murmuring something reassuring to the lad as he did so. Probably a good thing. She and Nori rarely had easy conversations. They tended to bring out the worst in each other somehow.

‘We have good news,’ Nori stated, then stopped. Dís glared at him. He winked. Dís let her hand drop pointedly to her dagger. Nori produced one of his own in a flash, seemingly from nowhere.

Ori sighed in the weariest tone she had ever heard.

‘Are the two of you done yet?’ he asked. ‘We have been running for the best part of three days. I need to sit down.’

The very worst in each other. Dís knew better than to keep a messenger standing. It was just rude. Quickly she gestured for them to follow her, heading to the guards’ break room. Once there, she took a seat so that Nori and Ori could do the same.

‘What news?’ she asked, trying to hide her impatience. Thankfully Nori seemed to be done with teasing her.

‘It’s a rather long story,’ he began, ‘but the most important things to know are that everyone’s fine, or was when last we checked, and that we’re going to need the army to march as soon as possible.’

So it was war then, Dís thought. Why did that not surprise her?

***

Bard could not express his relief when he saw Bain riding up to Dale’s gates, though it was a relief that quickly became bittersweet. Bain, but no Sigrid. That did not bode well.

‘Da,’ Bain said with a bright smile, hurrying forward to hug him tightly. One of Bard’s greatest joys was that his children were as generous with their affection now as they had been as youngsters. There was nothing quite as reassuring as being able to wrap one of them up in his arms. Even as he thought this Tilda came running up, her two sons not far behind.

‘Uncle Bain, Uncle Bain!’ the youngest shouted excitedly. Bain laughed.

‘Barlan, Barlan,’ he replied, scooping his seven-year-old nephew up and swinging him around in a circle. Barlan giggled madly and clung on tight. Bain had always been his favourite and the lad had missed him.

‘Bain, where’s Sigrid?’ Tilda asked then, having scanned the area around the gates and come to the same conclusion as her father.

‘She had to travel on without me,’ Bain told them, eyes solemn and focusing on Bard after he had answered Tilda’s question. ‘There are important events coming, Da. Sigrid’s gone to do her part, but we’ll have ours as well.’

‘Is Alnir with her?’ Bard questioned, hoping the answer was yes. He would feel better knowing she had someone to watch her back.

‘Alnir, Bofur, Fíli, Kíli, Bilbo and Legolas, plus Elladan and a man who’s apparently the King of Gondor,’ was Bain’s reply. ‘She’s not alone, Da.’

‘Well, that is something,’ Bard said. ‘I’ll want to know everything later, but for now you’d best tell me what we need to do.’

‘Are you well now?’ Bain asked pointedly. ‘What’s coming is going to need us all at full strength.’

‘I am,’ Bard answered, though he gave Bain a repressive frown. His children had already been more than vocal on this subject and he was still their father and their lord. ‘I told the three of you it was nothing to worry about.’

‘It would have been more convincing if you hadn’t been hacking up a lung as you said it,’ Tilda pointed out. ‘It’s fine,’ she told her brother, ‘I got tired of the idiocy in the end and sent a message to Thranduil’s people. There’s nothing wrong with him now.’

Bard decided it was best just to let the conversation move on.

‘What _is_ needed, Bain?’ he asked instead. Bain adjusted his grip on his nephew, tucking him in closer for a second, and in that moment Bard knew.

Bain had no good news for them.

***

With Nori, Ori and Bain dispatched as messengers, and with his own forces being roused as well, all that remained for Thranduil and his companions to do was ride as fast as they could towards the Great East Road. They were not far from it, having battled the orcs on the Gladden Fields, and the road would take them straight through his realm. Tauriel would no doubt have his army ready and waiting on the other side of the forest.

Everything was, in theory, under control.

So why did he feel as if he was waiting for an axe to drop?

‘You look twitchy, old friend,’ Glorfindel opined as he approached. Thranduil glared at him.

‘I look no such thing,’ he responded sharply.

‘Tell that to your people,’ Glorfindel said, nodding his head to one side. Thranduil looked over involuntarily and noticed that his guard were a good ten feet further away than they would normally allow.

Perhaps he was not quite so calm as he had thought. None of those in his personal guard were stupid.

‘Something feels wrong,’ Thranduil told Glorfindel after he had spent a long moment trying to decide what, exactly, was jangling his nerves.

‘It would,’ Glorfindel answered, voice dropping low. None but another elf would have been able to hear him. ‘We are being watched.’

Years of training helped Thranduil suppress the instinct to look around him. Nothing was more likely to alert a watcher that they had been spotted.

‘Do the others know?’ he asked Glorfindel instead. Glorfindel nodded.

‘Bifur was the one who realised first,’ he replied. ‘He told Balin something was making his skin crawl and his head hurt. Apparently that normally means he is sensing something through the ground. Balin asked Elrohir to go and have a look last night once he had the dark to cover him. We have a small group of spiders trailing us through the wood. They are far enough away I might never have noticed them.’

Thranduil hissed in a moment of rage. Spawn of Shelob, back in _his_ forest, after all his people had done to drive them out. No wonder he felt that sense of wrongness. Such corruption in the forest would raise alarms.

He uttered several choice words that Glorfindel echoed heartily.

‘What counsel did our companions have?’ Thranduil asked his friend after a moment.

‘Balin and Elrond both suggest leaving them be for now,’ Glorfindel said carefully. ‘Better spies we know about than those we do not. With Dol Guldur apparently occupied again we can be fairly sure where the spiders are nesting and they can be dealt with later. It is your home, however, mellon. None here will dispute your right to make the final decision.’

That, Thranduil knew, was the reason he did call Glorfindel his friend. Exasperating and contrary as he could be, he also understood a great deal more than he let on.

Such as how hard it would be for Thranduil to allow those things to inhabit his forest one moment longer than necessary.

Forcing himself to push emotion aside and think logically, Thranduil soon understood the wisdom in the suggestion that had been made. They would have to deal with Dol Guldur eventually, but they had already broken its main force and Glorfindel had seen off the Nazgûl. Thranduil loathed these spiders with all his being, but they were far from the most dangerous foes abroad.

Nodding abruptly, he refocused his attention on Glorfindel.

‘Leave them for now,’ he agreed. ‘Once Mordor has been dealt with I can cleanse the forest again. No doubt Thorin and Galadriel will lend help as they did before. Besides,’ he forced more amusement than he felt into his tone, ‘Legolas would never forgive me if he found that I had purged our realm without him.’

Glorfindel smiled and touched Thranduil lightly on the arm. Then he urged Asfaloth forward and went to pass the news to Elrond and to Balin.

Thranduil settled himself more comfortably in his borrowed saddle and began to plot.

Just because he could not kill the spiders now did not mean he could not plan how he would do so.

A good king always had a plan.

***

‘Idhren, where is our Lord?’ Erestor asked as he hurried down the steps of Rivendell and approached the newly-arrived elf. ‘Where is Arwen?’

‘Arwen remained in Lothlórien with Lady Galadriel,’ Idhren replied, clearly prepared for such questions. ‘Our Lord is with King Thranduil and the dwarves of Erebor. Events were worse than he feared, Erestor. Worse even than we feared. We must prepare quickly.’

‘How are they worse?’ Erestor asked, even as he signalled for another of the household to take Idhren’s horse, as well as calling for drink and food.

‘The Nazgûl are abroad once more,’ came the reply. Erestor closed his eyes for a moment. Memories of horror beyond any other crowded in, then were forced out again. He had known little good could come of Galadriel’s summons. He had known that only great evil would prompt such a summons. This was no time for panic, nor for shrinking from darkness.

‘Ivorel,’ he said, after taking a deep breath, ‘call the household together. I will need an hour, then I will speak to them.’ The elleth in question nodded, concern clear in her eyes, and left without a word.

‘Tell me,’ Erestor commanded Idhren, as they walked into the house.

Perhaps it was only fear colouring his perceptions, but it seemed that the Last Homely House, usually so busy behind the gentle peace that pervaded its halls, was holding its breath.

******


	35. Passing On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now they just have to make it to Mordor.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Passing On

In Mordor, at the centre of Sauron’s power, the remaining six Nazgûl felt the full force of their master’s fury. With their false prey dead and their true prey beyond them, they had had little choice but to return to Barad-dûr. Now, for the first time in the long centuries since pride and greed had twisted them beyond recognition, they felt not only fear but also a sense of doom.

Sauron was not one to retain servants who were of no use to him.

The Witch-King, of all of them, was the calmest. He had served his master well in years gone by and knew the value of the magic he wielded. He knew that Sauron was not beyond worry himself. Just as he knew that the power of the forces now moving into place troubled their master a great deal.

The Witch-King did not yet know of the death of their ally and the fall of Isengard, but Sauron did.

He knew that the Lady Galadriel walked the world outside her forest once more. That Lord Celeborn, ever her shield, led his armies at her command. That Lord Elrond moved his own forces into place with all speed. That Gandalf the Grey was not dead as Sauron had commanded.

When last they had marched together, these forces of good, Sauron had been forced from his hiding place too soon for his liking, had fled before them to the safety of his fortress.

How safe was it now?

The ents marched to war, the elves flew across Arda to raise their armies, the dwarves thundered over the land full of purpose and the men, usually so easy to corrupt, apparently stood firm against him.

Worst of all, there was still no sign of his ring.

The siphon that had held it so long had had the gall to distract his servants from their true task and now it was lost to them once more.

The Nazgûl saw his fury and knew panic.

Sauron saw the possible failure of his plans and knew fear.

***

Bilbo wished that he was able to appreciate the beauty of Anorien more fully. It was a wild land, mountainous and, sometimes, treacherous, but with grassy valleys which stretched for miles between the crags. Within these fields often grew edible plants or herbs which could be used for healing, and whenever the Fellowship encountered these they paused to collect what they could. Small streams provided water which could be used to refill their water-skins and they did so as often as possible. Where the valleys gave way to the Firien Wood a long runoff of the Entwash bisected the Wood and here the Fellowship paused for some time to ensure that they were as well-stocked as they could be.

They all knew that the land they were headed to would provide no such aid.

Unfortunately for Bilbo, Anorien’s often breath-taking views were not enough to hold his attention, or not for long. The ring had tried what tricks it could to make its way into more susceptible hands and now, knowing it had failed and that the wilds held little chance for making its escape, it turned on the one who bore it with a will.

Bilbo was in pain, from morning until night, and his ability to hide it from his friends was fading daily. He was tired, often unable to sleep because of the shivers that wracked him when the ring pushed cold so deep within him that he felt he would never be warm again. Its voice in his head was quieter now that it did not lie against his skin, but the physical effects of its presence seemed undiminished.

He did not know how much longer he could go on. Feeling what he did, knowing its cause, Bilbo no longer wondered at what had become of a young hobbit when the ring had taken him so long ago. He only wondered that Sméagol had somehow survived.

***

‘He cannot carry on like this,’ Fíli whispered to his uncle as they watched Bilbo sleep fitfully. ‘He looks as if he is about to shake apart right now and we are still miles from Mordor.’

‘I know,’ Thorin replied gravely, not surprised by his nephew’s words. They had all seen the changes come over Bilbo as they travelled, had all been thinking the same thing but were unsure how to broach the subject with their ever-stubborn hobbit. Bilbo wanted so badly for them to believe that he was fine. Thorin would normally have ignored this wish in favour of making sure that Bilbo was _actually_ well, but he was not entirely sure what they could do. He was no wizard, to will away the evil of the ring.

‘I should take it,’ Frodo said with quiet certitude into the silence. ‘This is why I came after all, so that I could help Uncle Bilbo when it became too much.’

Thorin bit back an instinctive denial and forced himself to think about what Frodo had said. He had told Bilbo that they would bring Frodo with them because he was now an adult. If that was so, Thorin would have to give his ideas the same consideration he would give to anyone else.

Whilst reserving, of course, the right to reject them completely if he felt they were foolish.

‘He’s right,’ Fíli added after a moment. ‘Gandalf seemed to think that hobbits were uniquely suited to such tasks as this. Frodo would be able to ease the burden, if nothing else.’

‘It shouldn’t just fall to Frodo,’ Kíli broke in as he approached them and sat next to his brother. Apparently he had been eavesdropping from his place on watch. ‘The more we spread the ring between us, the less time it has to work on any one person.’

‘A day each?’ Fíli asked, twisting slightly to look at Kíli.

‘A day and a night,’ Frodo answered firmly. ‘The broken nights are doing as much damage as anything else.’

‘The idea has its merits,’ Legolas stated, joining the conversation for the first time, his eyes also shining with concern as they gazed at Bilbo. ‘He fights it well,’ Legolas continued, ‘but such evil is most difficult to contain.’

That, Thorin thought, was part of his worry. Bilbo was as stubborn as anyone he had ever met, more stubborn than a dwarf in many ways. Could they hold it as well as he did? Or would it break another of them and cause yet more problems?

‘Let me try to begin with,’ Frodo suggested. ‘I’ll be more easily overpowered if something goes wrong. I’ll get one of you to hold my sword, obviously,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Better to avoid another accident.’

It was the first time that Frodo had referred to the incident in Rohan in anything other than the gravest terms. Knowing his youngest nephew as he did, the thought gave Thorin hope. If Frodo was working on making what he had learnt part of him, rather than a rock hanging around his neck, then he might yet grow stronger without letting the guilt consume him.

Thorin looked up, about to respond, and then noticed that Frodo’s eyes, and those of the rest of the group in fact, were not focused on him.

Frodo was awaiting his answer from Fíli.

After the initial surprise, Thorin wondered that he had not considered this possibility before. Someone would have had to lead them, to make the decisions of what they should do and when. Somehow Thorin had assumed that with his arrival he would take command, as he normally did. It had not occurred to him that the Fellowship might, entirely naturally, continue to rely on another’s leadership.

Now Thorin remembered what Thranduil had said at the Council. _We have had our day. Let this quest be theirs_. Thranduil had meant to convince Thorin to let Bilbo go on without him. Anyone could see how well that had worked. Now, though, Thorin wondered if it was not time to see what his nephews could do when they were not in Erebor and naturally deferring to his judgement.

When he was Fíli’s age he had already been King, making his mistakes, yes, but leading their people for better or worse. One day Fíli would take that responsibility from him for good, Kíli supporting his brother as he ever had. Thorin thought he knew the sort of rulers they would make, but it would be interesting to see how they led now.

He came out of these thoughts to realise that Fíli was watching him, awaiting his King’s command as he always did. Thorin met his eyes and inclined his head slightly. To another it might have meant little, but Fíli took the meaning well enough.

 _Go on, then_ , Thorin said to him. _Tell us what we should do_.

Fíli’s eyes widened in a slightly comical manner, then the surprise in them settled and changed into something determined and confident instead.

‘Frodo, when Bilbo wakes it will be your turn,’ Fíli said resolutely. ‘Bilbo’s not going to like it at all, but that will be your job, Uncle.’ Here he smiled teasingly. ‘Bilbo-wrangling has always been your specialty. Kíli can help you if you need it. Bilbo’s not quite as immune to the wide-eyed pathetic look as he’d like to think.’

‘Oi!’ Kíli objected predictably. ‘I do not look pathetic.’

‘You look as if you are a child faced with the last pudding on Middle Earth and someone is about to snatch it out of your hands,’ Legolas informed him tartly. ‘If that is not pathetic I don’t know what is.’

In amongst the quiet exchange of insults that greeted this comment, Kíli announced that his watch was done and it was Fíli’s turn now. As the others turned to grab their bedrolls and prepare for sleep, Fíli leaned over to speak to Thorin.

‘You’re sure about this?’ Fíli murmured lowly. His expression was solemn and, seeing it, Thorin realised that he was.

‘Entirely,’ he told his nephew. ‘Lead the way.’

***

Bilbo, as expected, seemed not at all happy with their plan. When Thorin introduced the idea to him, cunningly twisting it to appear entirely his own idea so that he would be the one to draw Bilbo’s ire down upon him, their hobbit stared at him in unnerving silence.

Kíli, watching from a safe distance, if there was such a thing when Bilbo was angry, hoped fervently that all this irritation was stemming from the ring. Bilbo had always been generally even-tempered before and he was proving anything but on this journey.

Only more reason to get the ring away from him as much as possible.

When Bilbo did speak, however, Kíli realised that he should not be so swift to jump to conclusions. Bilbo was not angry. He was just very, very worried.

‘Thorin, I am really not so sure that this is a good idea,’ Bilbo began anxiously. ‘You have seen what I am like when you try to separate me from the ring. We cannot have that happening to all of the Fellowship on a regular basis. We would never make any progress at all. Besides, spreading the taint of this thing around everyone does not seem like the best way of avoiding its evil.’

Uncle, of course, already had his reply to hand. Fíli was right, he was really very good at Bilbo-wrangling.

‘Bilbo, I do not think we have much choice,’ Uncle told him. ‘You cannot continue travelling on little sleep and in pain… and do not think to try and convince me that you are not in pain, my friend,’ he continued over the top of what Bilbo was trying to say, ‘because I was not born yesterday and I am not blind.’

‘Yes,’ Bilbo sighed in response, ‘you are right that this hurts. It is unpleasant and it makes it hard to sleep. Currently, though, it is only hurting me, which puts us at very little disadvantage in a fight. If the rest of you are tired and hurting as well we will be in trouble should our enemies come calling.’

‘We will be at more of a disadvantage if we end up having to carry you,’ Kíli decided to point out. It was a valid point, after all, ‘and if we did then one of us would be carrying the ring anyway. Sort of. I’m fairly sure it would count.’

‘That is semantics, Kíli,’ Bilbo replied. Kíli frowned.

‘No, it’s not,’ he told Bilbo. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

‘It is the stu… no, never mind,’ Bilbo answered with a wave of his hand to dismiss the topic.

‘He has a good point, Uncle,’ Frodo chipped in. ‘It probably wouldn’t matter if the ring was on you if someone had to carry you.’

‘Why is it,’ Thorin asked curiously, apparently talking to Legolas, ‘that my family’s discussions always become mired in madness before we reach the end point?’

Legolas grinned at him and shrugged one shoulder. ‘I could not possibly say,’ he replied, clearly meaning no such thing.

‘Bilbo,’ Fíli said to distract him from the potential diversion, ‘the point is that there are many, many miles still between us and Mordor and we really need everyone to be in full control of their faculties when we get there. Dwarves are hardy enough to resist most evil magic and if one hobbit can hold the ring successfully then another one should be able to as well.’

‘You did _see_ Sméagol, did you not?’ Bilbo queried meaningfully. Fíli mouthed something rude as he looked to the sky. Kíli couldn’t help smiling. His brother always reacted the same way when someone caught him out while he was trying to be clever.

‘Do you think I’m like Sméagol?’ Frodo asked Bilbo, before his uncle had chance to speak again. Bilbo turned his head so sharply that Kíli half-expected to hear it crack.

‘No, of course I do not,’ Bilbo reassured Frodo instantly. Frodo relaxed a little, apparently comforted by the words, then spoke again.

‘Then why won’t you trust that I can hold the ring without turning evil?’

Oh, that was just sneaky! Kíli approved. Turning parental guilt to your advantage was the hallmark of a true master of manipulation. They had taught Frodo well.

‘That is not…,’ Bilbo muttered, then stopped and took a deep breath. ‘I am not going to win this argument, am I?’ he asked Uncle. Uncle’s mouth quirked in a half-smile.

‘It seems unlikely, my friend,’ he answered. ‘They are a formidable force when they band together.’

‘As if you were not encouraging them all the way,’ Bilbo grumbled. Then he reached down and unhooked the belt pouch which Thorin had secured the ring in. He looked at it for a long, tense moment, clenching and unclenching his hand as he stared. Kíli saw Uncle tense and move an inch or two before stilling himself and watching intently.

Then, as Bilbo began to stretch out his hand towards Frodo, their hobbit gave a wrenching cry of pain, sinking to the floor and curling in on himself, his hands coming up to clutch his head and loosing the belt-pouch in the process. Uncle moved at the same time Kíli did, but Kíli was still closer and was the one to grab the thing and fling it away. Bilbo lay on the ground, breathing hard and with one hand clutched to his head for some seconds, before his body finally sagged and stilled. Kíli hurried to help him sit up and the others all moved forward, talking over each other to ask if Bilbo was alright.

‘It’s fine,’ Bilbo said breathlessly. ‘I’m alright.’

‘If that’s alright then I’m an elf,’ Uncle growled. ‘Bilbo…’

‘You could hardly expect it to give up without a fight, Thorin,’ Bilbo answered sharply. ‘We are doing this to try and weaken its influence. Not something that the ring would appreciate.’

‘I,’ Uncle said, stopping and then starting again. ‘I had perhaps underestimated its ability to understand us. Yes, I am aware how idiotic that sounds, thank you,’ he finished when Bilbo gave him a pointed glance.

‘Frodo?’ Fíli asked in the silence that fell. Their young cousin was eyeing the pouch warily, but with a determined set to his eyes that Kili was familiar with. It would not take Frodo much longer to make his decision.

Nor did it. Stepping forward Frodo grasped the pouch and secured it on his own belt with little hesitation. He braced himself as he did so, but nothing untoward happened.

‘Perhaps it wore itself out?’ Kíli offered.

‘Perhaps,’ Bilbo answered quietly. Then he gathered himself and looked sternly at them all.

‘If it becomes too much, you are to take it off and give it back to me,’ he instructed, no hint of compromise in his tone, ‘and you will not all be carrying it. If we are to do this then I will have at least one of you clear of mind and well-rested.’

‘Legolas,’ Fíli stated, then cocked his head in question at their elven friend, receiving a nod in reply. ‘I don’t think evil magic mixes very well with elves,’ Fíli explained to the rest of them. ‘Legolas might find it even more painful than the rest of us.’

‘It is possible,’ Legolas agreed. ‘If the Lady Galadriel hesitated to touch that thing then I would prefer not to test myself against it.’

‘Then that is settled?’ Uncle asked them. ‘We are ready to go on?’

‘We are,’ Bilbo confirmed. ‘For better or for worse.’

‘I don’t have to marry one of you, do I?’ Kíli said, desperately trying to add some levity to the morning. ‘I’m all for saving the world, but I have my limits.’

‘I assure you, Kíli,’ Uncle told him with all appearance of solemnity, ‘there is not a power in the world that could compel me to marry my own nephew.’

Frodo began to giggle and Bilbo was not far behind him. He already looked better for having given the ring away.

That was good. Perhaps things would be a little easier for the next while.

***

Kíli got his wish, after a fashion. In the days that followed they kept mostly to the road and found it quiet, though they diverted off it if they came across a settlement located nearby, climbing high enough that they were out of sight of Anorien’s citizens. The last thing they needed was any gossip about the strange group of travelling companions making their way east. The people of Anorien might be isolated but they doubtless had some contact with Minas Tirith, even if it was only in the form of the tax collector.

None of them wanted their location to be given away by such a small mistake.

Unfortunately not everything could go smoothly. Kíli’s first turn with the ring left him shaken and frightened, though he refused to let any of it show.

It was not the pain, as such. Dwarves were not a folk unused to hardship and even as a dwarfling Kíli had known cold and hunger in Ered Luin. Uncle had done his best to protect them and provide, but when their people suffered the royal family could not claim special privilege. Most winter nights they had spent all curled up together, he and Fíli, Mum and Uncle, sometimes with Dwalin and Balin as well to try and block out more of the cold. Even now Kíli preferred to be near Fíli when the nights turned bitter. There was a comfort to it that had become instinct.

So the cold of winter and the heat of forge-fires, both of which the ring tried against him, were not something he feared. An old enemy and an old friend, for the forge had long helped Kíli to bend metal to his will and there was little he enjoyed more than fighting that battle as the fire of the great forges heated him more than the noonday sun in summer.

What bothered him was the fact that the heat and cold, the bursts of pain that shot across his nerves, came from _inside_ him. Though the day was mild, heat would suddenly sear through him like his blood had been replaced by molten lava, or he would find himself fighting the urge to clutch at his head as pain shot behind his eyes, even though nothing had touched him.

It was unnatural, and unnatural things made Kíli very nervous indeed. He would once have said that _magic_ made him very nervous indeed, given all the damage that Smaug’s cursed gold and their grandfather’s magic ring had caused the family, but he had been forced to correct that opinion some years ago.

Not all magic was unnatural; only the sort that was meant to hurt people.

He had been talking to Bifur when he came to that realisation, in a quiet moment at a family dinner, trying to understand Bifur’s stone-speech and how it worked. It was another thing that had seemed unnatural, a form of magic that guided the toymaker down paths which were closed to other dwarves. Bifur had laughed, in the gravel-scraped way that he did, and patted Kíli on the head. It was not unnatural, he had assured Kíli, only another sense that all dwarves would have if they knew how to listen. The stone spoke to every dwarf from the moment of their birth, but some were better at hearing it than others.

He had told Kíli to be quiet for a moment, then had taken his hand and pressed it to the wall. _Listen_ , he had commanded, and Kíli had decided to humour the older dwarf. He had had nothing pressing to do that evening anyway. It was only when Kíli felt… something, something odd and inexplicable which felt like fond amusement and gentle caring, that he had understood what Bifur had meant. He could hear, if he tried, just not as much as Bifur and Bofur could. It was not a clear voice, but there was a murmur there which spoke deep inside him.  

This ring, though, with all its unnatural power, he did not wish to hear. He didn’t like the thoughts it tried to put in his head, especially didn’t like the fact that the ring thought him weak enough to fall to such petty hatreds and jealousies. Second-in-line Kíli might be, but he was still an heir of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. He was not weak and he would not crumble.

In the end, he knew that that was the thought he would have to cling to during his turns with the ring. That was the one which would keep him going if he was tired or hurt or just utterly fed up with this stupid thing and the pain it was causing his family.

Thorin was strong and so was Fíli. Mum was, quite probably, the strongest of them all.

Kíli would not be less than they were. Not a chance.

***

Once they reached the Druadan Forest, the Fellowship left the road and cut through the trees, heading north towards Cair Andros. They did not want to get too close to Minas Tirith when Elladan and his companions were meant to be making their way there and alerting the Steward of Gondor to the danger his lands faced.

They would use the island to cross the river and then would make their way, as Gandalf had advised, towards Minas Morgul. While the history of the fortress did not leave Bilbo feeling particularly happy, it seemed safer than trying to make their way through the Black Gate when their armies were deliberately drawing Sauron’s gaze to the north.

Their journey was tense, but for Bilbo it was also accompanied by a sense of relief. With the ring more often in other hands he could think and breathe easily once again and he slept through the night far more often. It grieved him to see each of his friends wrestle with the same trials he had been facing, but time and distance from the ring had convinced him of the wisdom of Thorin’s plan. The burden, when shared between them, was far easier to manage.

He did not always feel the same way, admittedly. The night that Frodo had woken sobbing, shaking so violently that Thorin had had to hold him tightly just to still him, had put everyone on edge. Calmed once more, Frodo had told them that he had been reliving the incident on Rohan’s plains and, as he had been wearing the ring while he slept, it was not difficult to divine the cause of that nightmare. Bilbo had very nearly taken the ring from Frodo and refused to let him have it again. Then Bilbo had seen the steely determination in his nephew’s eyes as he glared down at the belt-pouch and had reconsidered. He had to remember to give his nephew the credit that Bilbo would want from others. Small did not mean weak or incapable.

They all had their private struggles in those days, but they forged on ahead and made good time regardless. Legolas often travelled ahead, scouting the area to ensure that no danger lay in their path. The rest of the time he stayed close to whichever Bearer currently held their nemesis, offering silent support. Bilbo suspected Legolas felt guilty for not taking his turn, but he saw Fíli and Kíli sitting with their friend many a night and knew that they were reassuring the elven Prince in their own unique ways.

Crossing the water in a stolen boat had to stand as one of Bilbo’s least favourite parts of their journey. Not only did he have an entirely reasonable dislike of water, like any sensible person, he also could not shake the sense of shame at taking another’s belongings and absconding with them. When he mentioned this to Thorin he received a look of fond exasperation and a shake of the dwarf’s head.

‘Would it make you feel better if I left them payment?’ Thorin queried laughingly as they stood on the dock of a small village on the banks of the river. ‘I imagine my purse can stretch to that much.’

‘That’s all well and good,’ Bilbo said, feeling foolish but determined to stand his ground anyway, ‘but what if they needed that boat today. Gold will not ferry them across the river.’

‘Nor will it take us,’ Thorin pointed out. ‘We have to cross, Bilbo.’

‘I know, I know,’ Bilbo answered. ‘I was only mentioning it.’

Thorin bent down, digging a small hole in the ground where the boat had originally sat and adding a few coins into it. He did not fill the hole in again.

‘That is the best I can do for them,’ Thorin told Bilbo and, though he still laughed, his eyes were kind as they almost always were. Bilbo nodded and walked down to the water, ready to tolerate the traumas of a river crossing.

Thorin, watching him go, wondered what Bilbo would say if told of the great barrel escape during their original quest and the amount of time Bilbo had spent submerged in river water.

***

At Cair Andros Bilbo was forced to swallow his objections and silence his scruples once again. Their food supplies were running short and they were about to reach the most dangerous part of their journey. Without the option of revealing themselves to the Gondorian garrison, the Fellowship had no choice but to ‘borrow’ what they could not buy.

Even worse, as the two quietest and least obvious of the group, Bilbo and Frodo were the ones who had to procure the supplies.

Bilbo was determined that, when the story of this quest was inevitably written, none of these incidents would be included. It simply would not do for people to think that he advocated stealing from others to make your way in the world.

Moving as silently as possible towards the storeroom, which was thankfully part of the outer ring of buildings at the garrison, Bilbo and Frodo struggled a moment with the door before realising it was locked. Not having Nori’s familiarity with picking locks, Bilbo instead looked to the small window cut into the wall. It was far too small for any man to enter, probably put there so that the building could be used as a defensive position in case of attack, with archers able to fire upon their enemies. Frodo would, however, be able to squeeze through. If anything he was thinner than he had been when they left Erebor.

The challenge came in reaching the window. Blast Men and their tendency to make everything higher than it really needed to be. Bilbo, looking around for inspiration, spotted a pile of logs sitting nearby. Collecting these, he and Frodo managed to build them tall enough that Bilbo could stand atop them and Frodo, with a little manoeuvring and a very unfortunate foot to his uncle’s stomach, could climb atop Bilbo’s shoulders. Once there, Frodo squeezed his way sideways through the window and hurried to open the latched door.

Unfortunately, at that point their luck failed them.

‘Who are you?’ a low voice asked Bilbo, who turned to see a grim, youthful ranger aiming a nocked arrow in his direction. ‘I would ask what you are doing here, but that seems rather obvious.’

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to put this on Chapter 33. This song was the one I listened to while writing the early Bofur/Sigrid scenes, as it matched the way they were both feeling. They get a happier one now :)  
> Almost - Cheryl Wheeler: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBrA9dDu9Ao


	36. On Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White City is like nothing they have yet seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comment and kudos on the last few chapters. I don't think I've said this for a while but I really appreciate the feedback, especially when we're 382,000 words into this series and still going!

Chapter Thirty-Five: On Guard

‘Any sign of them?’ Elladan asked Estel as he returned from his nightly scouting trip. It was Estel’s habit from years abroad as a Ranger and he would not settle until it was complete, so each night he did a circuit around the area of their camp, checking that all was well. Surprisingly, it had been ever since they had lost one of their charges.

Elladan tried not to think about that too much. Death would never seem natural to him, no matter how long he spent with mortals, and after almost two weeks he could come to no other conclusion except that Sméagol was dead.

He had failed at this task, failed miserably, and he dreaded to think of Elrohir’s reaction when he found that Elladan had not kept their hobbits safe enough. Worse, he could not imagine how Arwen would react, given how fond she had become of the little ones during the weeks they had spent in Imladris.

‘No sign,’ Estel said quietly, trying not to wake their companions. ‘Whatever he did, Elladan, it was more effective than we could have hoped. Our pursuers are nowhere to be found.’

‘As long as they are not after Bilbo and the others,’ Elladan sighed. Estel dropped to the ground beside him and lay back, closing his eyes as he did so.

‘As long as,’ he agreed. ‘How far do you think we are from Minas Tirith?’

‘Eighty miles or more,’ Elladan responded thoughtfully. ‘Over a week’s walk still, keeping to the road.’

‘I half-expected to see the others,’ Estel mused. ‘Not Alnir’s group, perhaps, but Bilbo, Frodo and the dwarves. Where do you think they are?’

‘Hopefully holed up somewhere else in Anorien,’ Elladan said, ‘getting into far less trouble than we have. It will be a while yet before the armies are in place.’

‘Especially if we still have a week until we get to Gondor,’ Estel stated.

‘Are you curious?’ Elladan asked his brother, turning his head to look at Estel, who still lay with his eyes shut, face tilted to the sky. ‘You have never visited before.’

‘Curious, yes,’ Estel answered haltingly. He paused for a few breaths before continuing. ‘Nervous, more than that.’

‘You will be a great king, muindor,’ Elladan assured him. ‘You have learned how to lead, as well as how to fight, and you can see to the heart of the matter as Father can. There is no need to be nervous.’

‘It is not that,’ Estel responded. Then he shook his head slightly. ‘Not entirely that,’ he corrected. ‘It is… not home,’ he finished eventually. ‘Gondor is only a name to me. The North is my home. Imladris calls me back when I am absent. The Shire brings me comfort when the days are long and hard. How can I be the King of Gondor when I do not love it as I should?’

Elladan had to admit that he had never considered this aspect of Estel’s dilemma before. They had spent thirty years, or a little less, preparing the child they had fostered for kingship as they had trained his forefathers. Through one reason or another none of the others had ever taken up the throne of Gondor, but Father had been certain that this son of Isildur would one day be King in truth.

None of them had ever foreseen this particular problem. Elladan and Elrohir had been born and bred in Imladris, knowing that their father would likely never pass its lordship to them but quite at home in their lands and certain that, if needed, they could take on that role.

Now Elladan wondered why it had not occurred to them that Estel might need more than stories to build a connection with the homeland his family had not lived in for an age.

‘You will be King of Arnor as well,’ Elladan said as he thought. He saw Estel smile.

‘To be the Chieftain of the Dúnedain is a little different from being the King of Gondor,’ Estel replied. ‘More killing of orcs, fewer diplomatic visits and nobles trying to curry favour.’

Elladan could not help but smile himself. ‘True enough,’ he conceded.

‘Do you know, I really wonder why my ancestors could not have founded a slightly smaller kingdom,’ Estel murmured wryly. ‘Whenever people begin to speak of the great kingdom of Elendil and its reunification under my family’s rule, my awe at the thought is somewhat tempered by wondering how often I would have to ride the length of Middle Earth to settle some dispute or other.’

‘When you are King, Estel, you will be able to insist that they come to you,’ Elladan pointed out. Estel laughed.

‘Until they refuse and I have to march all the way there anyway,’ he retorted. Then he shook his head again. ‘It is a foolish thought. I could not reunite the old kingdom entirely. I could hardly throw Thengel of Rohan out of his own kingdom, or insist that the hobbits move elsewhere! Nor do I imagine Thorin Oakenshield would take kindly to me insisting that Ered Luin was under Arnor’s rule once more.’

‘You have thought about this in some detail, Estel,’ Elladan told him gently. ‘Does that not tell you something?’

‘Yes,’ Estel replied ironically, ‘it tells me that a Ranger has far too much time to ponder when he has been on his own for a month. Also that your sister is far cleverer than you and Elrohir combined. We may have spent little time together, but she manages to guide what conversation we have where she thinks it should go.’

Elladan worried that perhaps that thought was a little bitter, though there was no trace of such a feeling on Estel’s face.

‘She would love you still if you remained Chieftain of the Dúnedain all your life, Estel,’ he reassured.

‘So she has taken great pains to assure me,’ Estel answered. ‘I am not wroth with her, Elladan. I admire her tactics, in fact. Should I survive long enough to marry her, or to convince your father that we should be married, then I will be taking her council on any campaigns I should wish to begin.’

‘A wise idea,’ Elladan said with relief.

‘We have wandered a long way from our original topic,’ Estel announced then, ‘and the night grows short. Time for one of us to be asleep.’

‘Both of you,’ Pippin’s voice came and they turned to see him pushing himself upright. ‘You talked away most of Strider’s watch. It’s my turn.’

They really should give Pippin the first watch every time, Elladan reflected, not just one of the early ones. He never could sleep if he knew his turn was coming, even though he knew they would wake him. Either way he was right. They had talked longer than he realised. As Estel rose and made for his bedroll, Elladan leant back against the rock he had propped himself against and allowed his mind to wander as it would. It tried first to reach Elrohir, of course. Old habits would not be broken. Then it simply drifted, until he thought nothing at all.

***

Pippin wasn’t sure whether to be upset about his diminishing waistline or not.

On the one hand, a curve to your belly was considered to be the mark of a proper hobbit and a sign that you and your family were prosperous and generous with meals. The latter, of course, was most important. No one liked a hobbit who hid all the best biscuits and cakes and refused to share these with others.

On the other hand, though, Pippin was quite curious about this change and the others that had come along with it. He had seen his body shrink and harden at the same time, building muscles in areas hobbits rarely had them. In others he had identified this as the mark of a warrior. Now he shared the characteristic and he wondered if, given all the training Elladan and Strider were giving them, this didn’t mean that he and Merry were becoming warriors too.

On the other other hand, Pippin began in his head, before realising that a person only had so many hands and he had already run out…

On a practical note, this caused something of a problem.

‘Merry!’ Pippin whispered quietly as they walked down the long road that Elladan said would take them to Minas Tirith.

‘What?’ Merry answered, most of his attention focused on avoiding a suspicious looking pile on the ground before him.

‘My trousers keep trying to fall down,’ Pippin said, adding some urgency to his voice.

‘That’s why you have braces,’ Merry pointed out, seeming mostly unconcerned. He did give Pippin his attention, at least.

‘We’re using them to hold the packs together,’ Pippin was forced to remind him. Merry frowned for a moment, then huffed out a breath when he realised Pippin was right.

‘Just hold them up for today,’ he told Pippin patiently. ‘We’ll fix them tonight.’

‘I lost my sewing kit in the Entwade,’ Pippin was forced to admit. Merry didn’t even have the decency to look surprised.

‘I didn’t,’ he answered. ‘Luckily.’

‘If something attacks us and I end up fighting it in my smalls then I’m blaming it on Elladan,’ Pippin muttered, not really intending Merry to hear. ‘It’s all this training that’s done it.’

‘You asked for the training,’ Merry said firmly before picking up his pace to catch up with the others. It was not as if Pippin didn’t know that, so pulled a face his mother would not have approved of at Merry’s back, then sped up himself.

***

Minas Tirith was not hard to spot. Towering hundreds of feet above the ground, it seemed a natural extension of the mountain range it had been built onto. Aragorn had heard tell of the White City for most of his life, even though he had not been told of his heritage until ten years ago. Nothing quite prepared you for your first sight of the Tower of Guard though. It was truly breathtaking.

‘That’s your city,’ Pippin said to him, staring in wonder. ‘I bet you won’t have any trouble with the ceilings in there!’

For Aragorn, who had been taken by an uncharacteristic moment of panic, it was exactly the right thing to say.

‘No, I shouldn’t think so,’ he told his young friend seriously. ‘I am told that Elendil’s family were all around seven feet. No doubt Anárion took account of that when he began building the city.’

‘Men,’ Merry said derisively. ‘You’re all far too tall.’ Elladan cleared his throat meaningfully.

‘Yes, and you as well,’ Merry added. Somehow Aragorn did not think that was what Elladan had meant, but he supposed that, from Merry and Pippin’s viewpoint, they were all really excessively tall.

To the hobbits even a dwarf would seem tall.

‘Will you be Strider in there?’ Pippin asked, turning serious. His eyes had remained focused on the tower until now, but they turned to Aragorn’s face as he asked the question.

‘I will,’ Aragorn said after a moment’s contemplation. He still held by the arguments he had made before the Fellowship split. Gondor might be his birthright, but that did not necessarily mean that it needed a king. ‘Let us see how the Steward rules before we do anything rash.’

He wondered for a second if Elladan would argue with him, but his brother said nothing.

‘It’s still a fair way off,’ Merry reminded them, ever practical. ‘If we want to get there any time soon we need to move on.’

So they did, Aragorn keeping one eye on the city as they did so.

Could this be home? This white city, so cold-looking at this distance. For one who had been raised in the Last Homely House, who had spent most of his adult years camping in the wilds of Eriador, it was strange to think of spending his life amidst all that stone.

Would he have a choice?

***

Ecthelion II, son of Turgon, had been Steward in Gondor for just over ten years. In those years he had kept one wary eye on Isengard and its self-proclaimed Lord, or so rumour had it. No one outside Ecthelion’s circle of advisors had dared to ask him why he did not trust Saruman the White. Most believed it was simply the eagerness with which the wizard had appropriated Isengard, almost as soon as Ecthelion’s father had been laid in his tomb.

Either way, the people of Gondor had no complaint against Ecthelion. He was a fair ruler and a wise one, and few in Minas Tirith would hear any ill said of him.

All of this Elladan was able to learn over the course of the evening they spent in a taproom on the third level. Estel had been able to gain the advice of the gate-guards about the best place to spend the night easily, while Elladan and the hobbits stood off to one side with their hoods drawn up. Even in Gondor’s capital the sight of an elf and two hobbits would cause much surprise, and Elladan preferred that they not be quite so noticeable before they were ready to seek audience with the Steward.

Thankfully the day was brisk enough that no one remarked at their heads being covered and most who saw the hobbits assumed that they were children. Elladan was immensely grateful that few people spent much time looking at another’s feet. Pippin’s, in particular, were covered in far more hair than any man would possess, especially a child.

Luckily the room where they ate their supper was as dark as most of its kind and the corner they had chosen shadowed, so the hoods were no longer necessary. Particularly as the patrons were soon into their cups and so less and less perceptive. Estel had, when ordering their food and drink, made an off-hand remark about Gondor’s Steward and the topic had quickly been picked up by those nearby. Within a few moments of Estel’s retreat to their table the Steward was the main focus of conversation in the taproom and most of those participating had entirely forgotten how the conversation had started.

They were an especially garrulous lot in this establishment, and they grew more and more so as the evening wore on. As the ale consumed rose, the talk grew ribald and eventually it prompted the innkeep to approach Estel with a concerned look.

‘Far be it from me to tell any man how to raise his children, sir,’ the man said when Estel leaned over to hear him better, ‘but this isn’t the right sort of talk for young ones, if you catch my drift.’

Estel did and so did Elladan, who could hear the man easily enough. They had gained no attention by buying the hobbits half-pints of ale, for many a man taught his children how to hold their drink from a young age, but it had not occurred to any of them that children were rarely allowed to listen to such songs as the one starting up in the corner.

The innkeep still hovered uncertainly, concerned that he had caused offence, but Estel gave him a quick smile.

‘An innkeep knows his patrons best,’ Estel told the man kindly. ‘If they are likely to grow worse than this then we will certainly retire.’ The innkeep was clearly relieved and returned the smile widely.

‘They will be a great deal worse than this by the end of the night, sir, you mark my words,’ he said with a weary chuckle. ‘I should not complain though. The more they enjoy themselves the thirstier they get.’

As he said these last words he happened to turn to Elladan, meaning to include him in the jest, and suddenly his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open.

‘My lord,’ he breathed, more mouthing the words than saying them. While Elladan would like to think that his noble countenance was the cause of the honorific, he had long since learned that most men believed all elves were lords of somewhere or other.

Quickly, Elladan raised a finger to his lips and, to his credit, the inkeep nodded swiftly.

‘Aye, my lord,’ he agreed instantly. ‘If you wish a quiet evening in an inn that’s no one’s business but yours. You go on up and I’ll make sure none of this lot disturb you.’

The man could not resist a quick look at Merry and Pippin, the latter of whom gave him a cheeky smile that made him grin in return.

‘A rare night I’ve had and no mistake,’ the innkeep told them. ‘I’ll not ask what your kind are, masters, but be sure I’m bursting with curiosity.’

‘Ask about hobbits,’ Merry told him with a wink, ‘but not until after we’re gone.’

‘So I will,’ were the man’s last words, then the four of them were off up the stairs and to the bedchambers they had been lucky to reserve.

***

The next day they rose early, grabbing meat pies from the inn for breakfast while it was otherwise empty and then climbing the four levels that separated them from the Citadel, home of the ruling Stewards.

‘The people who live here must spend a lot of time very dizzy,’ Pippin remarked as they changed direction once again to continue towards the next gate between levels. The spacing of Minas Tirith’s gates was certainly a fine defensive feature, Aragorn would admit, but it did leave a visitor feeling rather confused.

‘No doubt you become used to it,’ Merry replied, glancing at Aragorn though he attempted to hide it. It might perhaps have been easier without his hood pulled up. Aragorn was touched at the realisation that Merry was worried how he would feel about his kingdom’s ruling city. He had good friends in the young hobbits, which would be a comfort to him whatever happened.

‘You become used to anything in time,’ Aragorn agreed, giving Merry a small smile.

‘Except poor pipe-weed,’ Pippin countered. He, too, was giving Aragorn a concerned glance, so Aragorn included him in the smile.

‘Except poor pipe-weed,’ he conceded. ‘Thankfully hobbits rarely have to deal with that.’

‘We’ve spent hundreds of years perfecting pipe-weed,’ Pippin said loftily, as if he had been personally involved in these efforts. ‘We should get some benefit from it.’

Not long after that they reached the gates of the seventh level and were stopped by the guards on duty.

‘What business in the Citadel, travellers?’ one asked them, casting glances at their clothes as he did so. Aragorn saw the exact moment that the guard noticed the hobbits’ feet and suppressed a laugh. He allowed himself a small chuckle, however, when his brother lowered his hood and turned the full force of his thousands of years upon the man.

‘We have need of an audience with Lord Ecthelion,’ Elladan said smoothly. ‘I presume he is available today.’

‘Of,’ the man started, almost choking before he caught himself. ‘Of course, my lord,’ he finished. ‘I believe the Steward had set the morning aside for hearing petitions. He will be in the throne room inside the Tower.’

‘Then we shall make our way there,’ Elladan replied. ‘Our thanks for your help.’ Then he swept forward and passed through the gate before the guards had chance to think and to realise that they should probably alert their Lord _before_ the strange elf appeared in the throne room.

‘That was ill done of you, Elladan,’ Aragorn scolded his brother as they continued walking.

‘And yet you did not stop me,’ Elladan noted idly.

‘I hardly had chance,’ Aragorn countered. ‘Now, however, you may consider yourself stopped.’ He had heard footsteps hurrying behind them and grasped Elladan’s arm firmly, holding him in place. Then he turned to see the guard they had spoken to approaching rapidly.

‘My companions and I will rest a moment here, if that is acceptable?’ Aragorn said kindly as the guard drew near, just on the threshold of the tunnel that led out into the Citadel’s courtyard. ‘The Citadel of Minas Tirith is a sight to behold and I would like to appreciate its beauty.’

‘That would be won… perfectly fine,’ the man said hastily. ‘Please, take your time. Enjoy the view.’ At that he gestured towards the edge of the cliff, stretching out above the city. Merry and Pippin took one look at it and began to turn slightly green, but Elladan looked happily at the spur of rock.

‘Such a view is very rare,’ he told the hobbits firmly, his moment of mischief apparently over. ‘You should see it at least once.’ He guided them across the courtyard to look out over the city below and Aragorn turned to follow them.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he heard the guard say with great feeling, but when he turned his head to look the man had already moved away, hastening towards the Tower.

When Aragorn joined Elladan and the hobbits again, his brother gave him a sly smile.

‘Already you protect your people,’ he observed. ‘Even from me.’

Aragorn thought for only a moment before reaching out and flicking the tip of Elladan’s right ear sharply.

Eru save him from smug older brothers.

***

It was not long before the gate guard returned and the time passed swiftly once the hobbits had overcome their fear of the height and the wide open space leading towards the sharp drop. They still refused to walk right up to the edge as Elladan did, but they were gazing with utter awe at the scenery.

Of course it was somewhat marred by the black peaks of Mordor, but nothing in life was entirely perfect.

They stood some minutes longer, as Aragorn contemplated the trials they had before them and the fate of Bilbo and his party, before recalled to their original task.

‘Lord Ecthelion looks forward to greeting you, my lords,’ they were told by the returning guard. ‘If you would follow me?’

They did so, of course, and were soon guided inside the White Tower, past the throne room and into a council chamber not far away. There they found the reigning Steward seated at the head of a long table and a young man, so similar to him that he could only be Ecthelion’s son, stood at his father’s right shoulder.

As they entered and drew to a halt Ecthelion gestured to their guard, who took up his position by the door. Another guard was also present, Aragorn noticed idly, standing off to one side and closer to the four of them than to Ecthelion. The Glorfindel-trained part of his mind was busy working out which of them he’d need to take first if they had to fight their way out of this room.

The Elrond-trained part told him to get a grip and trying talking to people before plotting their demise.

‘It has been many years since an elf has graced the halls of Minas Tirith,’ Ecthelion started, surveying them with great interest, ‘and even longer, I suspect, since Halflings were seen in this part of the world.’

‘Hobbits,’ Pippin said sharply, causing Merry to jab him irritably in the side. Pippin ignored him, eyes fixed firmly on Ecthelion. ‘We are hobbits,’ he said again. ‘I am not _half_ of anything.’

Ecthelion rose in Aragorn’s estimation when he took no offence and instead nodded his head regally in agreement.

‘My apologies, Master Hobbit,’ he said easily. ‘You are correct, that name is pure arrogance on our part, to assume that we are the natural order of things.’ With that established Pippin smiled widely at their host and made no further comment, to Merry’s clear relief.

‘I do not believe my guards had chance to get your names,’ Ecthelion said after a moment. ‘I, of course, am Ecthelion, son of Turgon, and this my son, Denethor.’

‘I am Elladan of Imladris,’ Elladan said carefully, unwilling to give away any clue that might trip them up. ‘My companions are Master Meriadoc Brandybuck and Master Peregrin Took. Master Strider, of the Dúnedain, has travelled far as their guard and companion.’

‘What need do the hobbits of Eriador have of a guard?’ Denethor queried, though his tone was less rude than his words. Merry responded with a laugh.

‘Any hobbit that leaves the Shire has need of a guard, my lord,’ he pointed out. ‘As has been borne upon us, we have no understanding of the wider world until we step into it. Strider makes sure we don’t drown in rivers or lose all our supplies. Nasty things, rivers.’

‘My people have guarded the borders of the Shire these last few years at Mithrandir’s request,’ Aragorn decided to add. ‘When these two made it clear they planned to abscond it seemed wise to go with them.’

‘We didn’t _abscond_ ,’ Pippin informed him. ‘Merry’s parents gave us permission, you heard them.’

‘They gave you permission to go to Imladris,’ Aragorn countered. ‘Does this look like Imladris to you, Pippin?’

Pippin stuck his tongue out at Aragorn, who noticed to his relief that their conversation had, as intended, lowered the level of suspicion in Ecthelion’s eyes. When he spoke again, Aragorn’s presence was not his topic.

‘So why come to Minas Tirith, Elladan of Imladris?’ he asked curiously. ‘Particularly if you bring two with you who were not intended to come.’

‘I come to warn of a danger,’ Elladan stated. ‘Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien held council some months ago with my lord Elrond, with Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor and with King Thranduil of Mirkwood, along with representatives of Dale and Esgaroth. A messenger was dispatched to Gondor to inform you of the council and invite you to send representatives of your own. When none appeared we began to believe that our messenger had never arrived. Thus I was sent on to bring news to Gondor and Master Strider agreed to accompany me. These two,’ here he gestured at Merry and Pippin, ‘were meant to remain with Lord Elrond but appeared when it was rather too late to send them back, so with us they have come.’

It was a tale with enough truth in it to satisfy both Ecthelion and Denethor and the contents were important enough that all else was left aside.

‘What danger would Lady Galadriel warn Gondor of?’ Echtelion asked, brows drawn together in a frown of concern.

‘Firstly, my lord,’ Elladan said respectfully, ‘the White Council would have you know that Mordor and its lord move again against the free peoples of Arda…’

Before he could get any further Denethor let out a snort of laughter and Ecthelion looked over his shoulder at his son and smiled in response. Denethor then gestured with his hand for their party to follow him to a nearby window.

‘Look across the Pelennor, Master Elladan,’ he said, still with a note of amusement in his voice. ‘Now, tell me why the White Council thought that Gondor would not have noticed the danger that Mordor poses to Middle Earth.’

Aragorn could not help himself. He began to chuckle.

‘He has you there,’ he told Elladan wryly and Elladan laughed himself.

‘So you do, Lord Denethor,’ he acknowledged. ‘I confess if that had been all of my message I would have felt rather more than foolish right now. Unfortunately it was not.’

‘Indeed,’ Ecthelion said as they returned to their original places. Then, having apparently decided that Aragorn and his companions were allies, if previously unknown ones, he gestured for them to take seats near to the top of the table. Aragorn would admit that he felt better for getting off his feet. Strider he might be, but that did not negate aching feet after a long walk.

‘The White Council gathered because of a troubling discovery,’ Elladan continued. ‘One of King Thorin’s companions had, all unwittingly, been carrying a dangerous object with him for some years. In the way of these things Lord Elrond had, through the actions of Merry and Pippin, come to suspect this around the same time that Lady Galadriel knew it for a fact. They gathered in Lothlórien to decide what should be done.’

‘And the discovery?’ Ecthelion asked, a hint of impatience colouring his tone for the first time.

‘That Sauron’s ring, the Ring of Power, had come to light once more,’ Elladan replied solemnly, ‘and that, feeling the stirrings of Sauron’s own power in the east, the ring was calling to its master. The Nazgûl ride abroad, my lords, and they search for the ring. We have been harried by them on our travels and lost a companion to them.’

‘Then what we have heard has been true,’ Denethor said to his father quietly. ‘The men at Osgiliath reported a wave of horror that passed over the garrison two weeks ago, a feeling of dread like none of them had ever known before. Their commander was absent at the time and thought it a fool’s tale.’

‘It’s like being all alone staring down an army,’ Merry said lowly, eyes distant for a moment. ‘A feeling of complete despair, as if all is wrong with the world and nothing can ever be right again. It’s so overwhelming that in that moment you feel you will run mad, that you might jump into the Brandywine and happily drown if that would make it stop.’

Elladan and Aragorn reached for him at the same time and each laid a hand upon his shoulder. At the touch Merry shook himself and became present once more.

‘It’s alright,’ he told them, though his voice wobbled a bit. ‘I remember it sometimes, but then I remember the feeling of stabbing the cursed thing in the face and that makes me feel better.’

‘Stabbing…?’ Ecthelion started, just restraining a gasp. ‘Valar above, have you fought these things?’

‘Merry killed one,’ Pippin replied gravely, ‘we think. Elladan killed two more. Our friend,’ he swallowed before finishing, ‘our friend led the rest away before they could kill us. He didn’t come back.’

‘Our sympathy for your loss, Master Peregrin,’ Ecthelion said kindly. ‘Master Meriadoc,’ he added, including Merry in the sentiment. Aragorn liked this Steward a great deal. His people had been right, he was a good man. If he led as well as this then most likely Aragorn would not be King of Gondor after all.

‘What decision has your White Council come to then?’ Ecthelion asked them then, catching and holding Elladan’s eyes. ‘What would you have of Gondor?’

****** 


	37. Words and Deeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ithilien holds some surprises for the Fellowship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always this is posted with huge thanks to ISeeFire, who lets me send her the rubbish drafts so she can help me figure out how to make things happen the way they should :D

Chapter Thirty-Six: Words and Deeds

‘They should be back by now,’ Fíli whispered anxiously to his uncle as they stared in the direction of Cair Andros’ garrison. The fact that staring into the distance wasn’t going to somehow summon Bilbo and Frodo to them didn’t seem to matter. Fíli couldn’t tear his eyes away.

‘They should,’ Uncle agreed in the same worried tone. Honestly, Fíli was surprised that Uncle was still sitting here with them. He had been growing twitchier and twitchier for the last half an hour and Fíli had fully expected him to tear off after Bilbo and Frodo about fifteen minutes ago.

The part of his mind occupied with that train of thought had finally come to the conclusion that Uncle was waiting for him to decide what to do. It was a conclusion that was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

After all, Fíli might make the wrong decision.

‘If you do he’ll stop you,’ Kíli muttered from Fíli’s right. ‘So stop worrying about nothing.’

Fíli resisted the urge to tell his brother to get out of his head. It would be no use anyway. They’d been finishing each other’s thoughts for so long that the habit couldn’t be broken anymore. It just was.

Besides, infuriating as it was when Kíli was right… well, he was right. Uncle wouldn’t let Fíli do anything terribly stupid.

He reserved that right entirely for himself.

‘We need to go after them,’ Fíli said aloud. Then he paused and thought again. ‘Correction; we need to send Legolas after them. If he can’t see Bilbo and Frodo in the camp or find out what’s delaying them then we’ll all need to go and look.’

Legolas rose to his feet immediately and started forward, likely pleased to have something to do that wasn’t sitting around waiting. As he walked away Kíli let out a short whistle and Legolas turned back.

‘Put your hood up,’ Kíli told their friend firmly once he had Legolas’ attention. ‘You might as well be wearing a beacon on your head sometimes with all that hair.’

Legolas rolled his eyes, pulled his hood up and bowed sarcastically. Fíli wasn’t sure what it was that made the bow sarcastic but Legolas managed it nonetheless.

Then he was gone.

‘If he doesn’t come back,’ Fíli started, looking over at Uncle and leaving the sentence unfinished. Uncle would know what he meant to say.

‘Then we all go together,’ Uncle concluded. ‘If they don’t return then they’ve been captured and being captured one by one will do none of us any good. Together we might be able to overwhelm the guards.’

‘Oh joy,’ Kíli whispered to himself. ‘The Line of Durin versus an entire garrison of Men. This should be fun.’

‘It will be enlightening for them,’ Uncle answered with a grin and a gleeful light in his eyes. ‘Most of them will never have fought dwarves before. We can expand their horizons.’

Years ago, in Ered Luin, Fíli would have said that Thorin Oakenshield, King of the people of Erebor, was a sombre, grave figure who growled and glowered and brooded well enough for any ten other dwarves. He did wonder sometimes how much of that persona had been faked.

After all, for the last twenty-odd years Uncle had been just as bad as he and Kíli, if not worse.

***

Bilbo’s heart stopped, just for a moment. They had been caught. Stupid, stupid hobbit, how had he not noticed this man approaching them? He was supposed to be keeping an eye out and he had chosen to stare at the door and wait for it to open instead. Idiot. Thank goodness Thorin was not with them. He would never have heard the end of it.

Bilbo looked up at the Ranger currently aiming an arrow at him and took a deep breath.

‘I am Bilbo Baggins, of Erebor,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘And you are?’

‘Harl…’ the Ranger began to reply instinctively, before clamping his mouth shut and glaring even more fiercely.

By this time Bilbo had had a chance to assess his captor and he received something of a surprise. At first glance the man was exactly as Bilbo had perceived him; tall, grim, angry and dangerous. Yet, looking again Bilbo could see differently.

The Ranger was young and a little… uncertain. The realisation made Bilbo stop and think for a moment. A moment in which Frodo, ever helpful, finally succeeded in opening the door, popped his head round and announced, ‘Uncle Bilbo, I have it….’

The Ranger reacted to Frodo’s arrival only by taking a step back, so that he could switch targets more easily if needed. Frodo had tensed instinctively, hand dropping to his side. Bilbo could see it out of the corner of his eye, just as he could see the moment when Frodo yanked his hand back up and away from his weapon.

They were going to have to do something about those reactions at some point, that much was certain.

The soldier had also seen Frodo’s movement and, startled by the suddenness, had pulled his bow round to aim it at Frodo.

Frodo immediately held his hands out in front of him, palms open to show he held no weapon.

‘Sorry,’ he said to the soldier quickly. ‘I’m sorry, you took me by surprise, that’s all.’

‘You did not expect to get caught thieving?’ the man responded bitingly. Frodo’s mouth quirked with wry humour.

‘If I’d expected to get caught I wouldn’t have tried it,’ Frodo informed him. ‘Clearly I overestimated our skills.’

‘Clearly,’ the man answered, then said nothing more for a moment. Bilbo, watching him closely, took the chance to ask his own question. It was not, perhaps, the one most conducive to his own survival, but curiosity had always been his worst trait.

‘What are you planning to do with us?’ he queried, still attempting to maintain his sense of calm. The Ranger, however, chose not to answer. Head cocked to one side, he considered them carefully for some seconds.

‘What are you?’ he asked, just when Bilbo’s nerves had tightened to breaking point. The blatant curiosity, so familiar to Bilbo and in a tone reminiscent of Frodo on one of his most inquisitive days, almost startled a laugh from him. When Bilbo did not immediately reply the young Ranger frowned. ‘You say you are of Erebor but you don’t look like dwarves’.

Even as the man was speaking a sound came from the darkness. To Bilbo it sounded only like the wind rustling through the trees, but it was enough to make the soldier suddenly nervous. He looked around anxiously, then spoke again.

‘In there, now,’ he commanded, motioning with his bow to the door Frodo had left ajar. Bilbo and Frodo both complied without hesitation, though Bilbo could not help but wonder why the soldier was taking such pains to lessen the chance of anyone seeing them.

Once they had entered, the man gestured again until they had retreated into a darker corner and he had pulled the door almost shut behind them, enough that no one outside would notice that it was not locked as it should be.

‘So,’ he said after a brief pause, ‘are you of Erebor or are you not?’ Apparently he could be fairly single-minded. Probably a good trait in a soldier.

‘I’d ask if you hadn’t heard that Erebor claimed two hobbits amongst its people, but that would sound arrogant and Uncle Bilbo would box my ears,’ was Frodo’s response.

‘Quite right, too,’ Bilbo could not resist adding. ‘Terribly bad manners, thinking that everyone must know who you are. It is not as if you are Thorin, Frodo Baggins.’

‘For which we are all routinely thankful,’ Legolas added, giving Bilbo the fright of his life as he slipped through the door, arrow already in place and aimed at their captor. Perhaps it hadn’t just been the wind through the trees after all.

‘No, Legolas,’ Frodo said immediately, voice suddenly shaky. ‘No, put it down, he hasn’t hurt us.’

Legolas paused for the barest second before complying, lowering the bow and sliding the arrow back into his quiver.

‘What is going on?’ Legolas queried, looking around the room with wary curiosity. ‘You had been gone far too long,’ he finished, looking at Bilbo, ‘we were worried.’

‘As it turns out, Frodo and I were not meant for a life of crime,’ Bilbo said tartly. ‘Which should have been obvious, really, considering that Smaug spotted me within half a minute of my entering the Mountain.’

‘A garrison of Men is hardly the same as a fire-drake,’ Legolas commented. ‘We thought you might have more luck here.’

‘What is an elf doing consorting with thieves?’ the soldier questioned, deliberately drawing their attention back to him. Bilbo could not blame the poor lad. His family really did have the worst habit of getting caught up in their private conversations and ignoring other people. Had Bilbo been the one watching from the outside he would probably have been annoyed as well.

‘They are not thieves, they are my friends,’ Legolas corrected sharply.

‘Even thieves can have friends,’ the man stated with equal sharpness, his attention now mostly focused on the elf. ‘Would you argue that they were not stealing?’

‘Well, we’ve already established we were not doing so very effectively,’ Bilbo added, trying to prevent the stand-off that seemed likely to begin. Really, warriors! If there was ever a more argumentative group Bilbo had not come across it.

‘Hardly the point,’ the soldier retorted.

‘We’re desperate,’ Frodo answered before Bilbo had chance to. ‘Perhaps that’s no good excuse but it’s the only one we have. We have a long way to go yet and we can’t complete the journey if we starve. A garrison like this gets regular supplies delivered, or so Uncle Thorin says, and there’s lots of game here to hunt and things that can be picked and eaten. There’s none of that where we’re going and if we took any it would likely rot. The hardtack and cram you have here will last even on a long journey.’

‘A fairly paltry excuse for theft,’ the Ranger began. He got no further before he was interrupted by a noise from outside.

‘Harlon,’ a voice whispered. ‘What are you doing in there? Are you talking to yourself?’

‘No,’ Harlon answered abruptly. ‘No, wait a moment I’ll come…’

Before he could finish the sentence the door had been pushed open and another young Ranger had entered. Bilbo could tell exactly when he caught sight of the three of them.

‘Varda’s stars, Harlon, what are you doing? Who are _they_?’ the man exclaimed.

‘Quiet,’ Harlon snapped at him. ‘You’ll draw attention.’

‘All our sensible fellows were asleep hours ago and the others are blind drunk in the hall,’ his fellow Ranger answered, managing an amiable tone despite the suspicion in his eyes. ‘Besides, we want other people to find them, don’t we? They’re intruders.’

‘Not… not now,’ Harlon answered. His voice dropped, as if he was trying to keep his next words secret, though there was no way to stop Bilbo and the others hearing in such a small room. ‘You said it yourself, they’re drunk. You know what the Captain’s like when he’s drunk. He’s mean and he’s stupid. He’d have them executed before you could say “Varda”.’

‘Intruders, Harlon!’ the other Ranger answered. ‘Do you not understand what the word means? People who are here without permission. Possibly dangerous people. We need to tell someone that they’re here!’

‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell someone,’ Harlon argued. ‘I’m just taking time to think through the decision. Time for the Captain to sober up and become as sensible as he ever is. What if they didn’t mean harm, Anath? What if… Look at them! Two people not much taller than elbow height and an elf, of all things. Do they look like dangerous criminals to you?’

Anath did not seem convinced.

‘They don’t have to be criminals to be dangerous,’ he told his friend, eying Legolas warily. That was probably no surprise. Bilbo had long-since realised that one warrior could spot another a mile off. Countless times over the years he had seen Thorin, Dwalin or another member of the Company look a visitor to Erebor up and down and sum them up in an instant. Once, a trade delegation had arrived from a dwarven settlement Bilbo had never even heard of. They had introduced themselves as merchants and scribes. The pretence had lasted all of a minute before Nori had moved in on one particular dwarf, with Dwalin right behind him, and stripped half a dozen knives from him in the space of a few breaths.

Oddly enough, Thorin had refused their offer of a trade agreement. He did so hate being lied to.

‘Legolas, sit over there,’ Frodo ordered suddenly, the imperious note in his voice unwittingly copied from Fíli and Kíli. Apparently Frodo was also trying to defuse the situation. Legolas obeyed without question, understanding the intent and laying his sword and bow pointedly on the floor beside him. Bilbo did wonder if Frodo was going to hear about this at a later point, however.

‘We’re not here to hurt anyone,’ Frodo tried to explain to the two men. ‘Really we aren’t. Please, I know it looks bad but it’s so very important that we carry on. There are six of us, all told. Uncle Bilbo and I, Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and his nephews Prince Fíli and Prince Kíli. We’ve been asked to do something, something that will weaken Sauron and give an army attacking him an advantage. We can’t do that if you keep us here.’

‘I haven’t suggested once that we would let you go,’ Harlon responded firmly, locking eyes with Frodo to make certain his point had been taken. ‘All I’ve said is that we’d hand you over later, when the Captain is… more himself. He might send you to the City so that they can see to your punishment there.’

‘Which would be more than fair in the circumstances,’ Bilbo heard. Fíli was entering the room, Thorin and Kíli on his heels. The elder Prince looked at the soldier with kind eyes, ‘but rather unfortunate at the same time.’

‘Do you see?’ Harlon muttered to his friend under his breath. ‘He puts one soldier on guard duty while half the camp get falling down drunk and thinks that’s going to keep us safe. Half an army could march in!’

‘Well we’d have a better chance of stopping them if you didn’t hide them in the storeroom,’ Anath responded sarcastically. ‘Besides, it used to be four people on guard until Kine decided to argue with him about it. He only reduced it to one to make the point that he could do what he liked. If certain idiots just stopped arguing with him…’

‘Somebody has to argue with him,’ Harlon answered heatedly. ‘The man’s an imbecile.’

‘Gentlemen, if you need a moment we could step outside,’ Thorin said, tone clearly amused. Both men turned to glare at him and he held his hands up. ‘It was only a suggestion.’

‘Is that all of you?’ Harlon asked Bilbo pointedly. Bilbo nodded immediately.

‘Yes, that’s it. Not an army, just a small travelling party.’

‘A small travelling party that claims to be royalty, if I heard correctly,’ Anath added. ‘A strange one indeed.’

‘Not so strange, really,’ Fíli replied. ‘The dwarves of Erebor did a lot of travelling once, when our need was great. Now the world’s need is great and so we travel again.’

‘You expect us to believe that you are off to save the world?’ Harlon queried disbelievingly.

‘Would it be so hard to believe?’ Kíli asked in return. ‘The world grows darker. The men stationed at Cair Andros would know more of that than anyone else.’

The words struck a chord, Bilbo thought. Though they did not mean to, the young Rangers could not help but react to the statement. When the silence that fell was broken, it was Harlon who broke it.

‘There are more orcs by the day,’ the soldier said quietly. ‘They are pushing forward across the river. Word comes that Lord Ecthelion calls more soldiers to his banner every day, no matter where they come from, and that he rebuilds the wall surrounding Minas Tirith. People say he is afraid.’

‘It is not fear that drives a Lord to reinforce his defences,’ Fíli said in return. ‘It is wisdom. If you know war is coming it would be sheer foolishness not to prepare for your enemy’s attack before it happens.’

‘And that is what you would do?’ Harlon asked them. ‘Prepare for an attack?’

‘We would strike the first blow,’ Legolas answered quietly. ‘Armies gather to the north of Mordor. Thorin’s people, my own, the men of Dale and of Lake-town. We know that war is coming, just as your Lord does. We believe that we can tip the scales in favour of our armies. All we need to do is get into Mordor.’

For a few minutes no one said anything. The two men watched the Fellowship silently, seemingly immersed in their thoughts. Then the silence was broken.

‘Do you believe we are your enemies, lad?’ Thorin asked gently. Harlon looked at him for a moment, then looked away to his friend. His thoughts were clear enough that he did not need to speak.

‘Harlon,’ Anath started, fear and disbelief combined. ‘Harlon, you will get us killed! When he finds out that we let them go…’

‘He need never even know they were here,’ Harlon answered. ‘No one knows that they were here but us.’

‘This is madness,’ Anath said, though now the disbelief seemed to be aimed at himself, at the idea that he might agree to whatever Harlon planned. ‘What about the food? How are we going to explain that much food going missing?’

Harlon paused, clearly thinking his idea through once more and stumbling at the same point. He nodded and Anath took a breath that looked like relief.

Then Fíli spoke up. He had been silent for some time, but the glint in his eye told Bilbo all he needed to know. Fíli had his own plan.

‘You’re on watch on your own?’ he asked Harlon keenly.

The lad nodded in response to the question. ‘For the rest of the night,’ he confirmed. Thorin raised an eyebrow. An all-night watch was rare in Erebor. Thorin didn’t like the idea of entrusting the security of his people to dwarves who were exhausted and whose guard could be down. The lad caught Thorin’s expression and shrugged, ‘I’m not good at keeping my mouth shut,’ he said in explanation. Then he laughed slightly as the irony hit him. ‘Not in certain situations anyway. This is my punishment.’

Bilbo was not, personally, of the opinion that that made things any better. He disliked this Captain of Men immensely and he had never even met the idiot.

‘Anath,’ Fíli continued, addressing their more reluctant potential ally, ‘you’re sure that everyone but you was asleep?’

‘Yes,’ Anath said slowly. ‘I’m sure. You were in luck. Our supplies only came in yesterday. The Captain and his favourites are still making their way through what beer got delivered and the rest retired early in disgust. Well, other than me. Anyway, things would be better if the beer had already run out.’

‘They shouldn’t have to be,’ Harlon added irritably. ‘Someone in Minas Tirith should have done something by now!’

‘They’re _trying_ , Harlon,’ Anath snapped in exasperation. ‘Father’s trying, I told you that!’

The more they said the more intrigued Bilbo became, though he knew they did not have time to find out what was really happening here. It was certainly an odd tale, even he could see that. A wise Lord, so alive to the danger growing in Mordor but allowing a drunkard to run a key garrison and turn it into this sort of mess?

Not his problem, he reminded himself.

Fíli seemed to agree, for he turned the topic back to their own situation.

‘What would be the punishment?’ he asked. ‘For not spotting a thief when you were on watch?’

‘Lashes,’ Harlon answered immediately. ‘For dereliction of duty.’

‘Even when you have the whole garrison to patrol?’ Thorin asked incredulously. Immediately afterwards Bilbo saw him bite his tongue. Criticising the arrangements here would not help them right now, nor was it really any of their business. Not that that would stop Thorin later, of course. If they were not in need of stealth right now he would probably be demanding to speak to Harlon’s Captain at that moment. Thorin called it a ‘healthy interest in the safety of other kingdoms’.

Bilbo called it being an interfering busybody, but when did Thorin ever listen to him about such things?

‘What about if you were overwhelmed before you could alert anyone of our presence?’ Fíli asked, pretending Thorin had never spoken.

‘A week or two of short rations, maybe?’ Harlon said, looking to Anath for agreement. ‘For the food that went missing?’

‘Probably,’ Anath agreed. ‘Some of the others would make up the lack. For some reason they like you.’

‘How much would you object to one of us…’ Fíli began. Harlon was no fool. He knew where the conversation was going.

‘Try not to do me any permanent damage,’ he requested dryly. ‘I would like to wake up tomorrow.’

Anath opened his mouth to speak, looked at his friend again and closed it once more. When he finally spoke his entire demeanour was resigned.

‘I can’t stop you doing this, can I?’ he asked Harlon wearily.

‘You could raise the alarm yourself,’ Harlon suggested.

‘And see you executed for treason by the drunkard?’ Anath replied. ‘Don’t be a fool, my friend.’

The matter seemed decided, then Harlon turned to the Fellowship with one last question.

‘You promise that this will help Gondor?’ he asked fervently. ‘You swear that you bear my people no ill will and you will put what you take to good use?’

Thorin stepped forward and looked at his nephews, who immediately drew up alongside him. On the other side Legolas rose and moved to join them. Thorin pressed his hand to his heart and the other three did the same.

‘I swear it, on the throne of Erebor and the lives of her people,’ Thorin said, the boys echoing his words.

‘I as well,’ Legolas said after, ‘on behalf of the Woodland Realm. All that we do will be for the good of Middle Earth.’

‘I should not believe you,’ Harlon told them quietly. ‘I really shouldn’t, but I do. Please don’t make a fool of me.’

‘When this is done,’ Fíli said in response, ‘if we live through it, we will find you, Harlon of Ithilien. Then you may judge for yourself.’

Harlon nodded, then turned to his friend.

‘Go back to the barracks, Anath,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t wake anyone while you do it.’

‘I’m quieter than you’ll ever be,’ Anath retorted. Then he proved his words by moving almost soundlessly out of the room. As he did so Bilbo moved to join Frodo, gathering what they needed, both of them reluctant but knowing it had to be done.

‘Uncle, would you?’ Fíli asked Thorin gravely once they were done.

‘Yes, I will take care of it,’ Thorin agreed. ‘Go on, off you go.’

Bilbo followed the others reluctantly, pausing at the door and waving Fíli off when he looked set to hurry Bilbo along.

‘I’ll come along with your uncle,’ he told Fíli firmly. Fíli nodded and carried on, focusing most of his attention on being quiet, if Bilbo’s guess was correct.

Thorin and Harlon exited the storeroom a moment later, a little surprised to see Bilbo still there. Stepping closer, Bilbo spoke lowly, loathe to risk giving them away at the last moment.

‘The Valar blessed us when they put you on guard this night, Harlon,’ Bilbo said to him. ‘There are not many who would risk so much on faith alone. You would have made a fine Baggins. Thank you.’

Thorin smiled at the reference to Bilbo’s own leap of faith twenty years ago. Harlon smiled a little himself.

‘Our old Sergeant taught us to trust our instincts,’ he said in return. ‘They keep you alive out here. Or so I hope.’ He gave Thorin a nod, then closed his eyes, and Bilbo stepped back out of the way as Thorin brought his sword hilt down onto the lad’s head, with as little force as he thought he could get away with. Harlon stayed upright only a moment, then slid to the floor, eyes still open but dazed. Quickly Thorin produced some of the rope they had been carrying and bound his hands and feet.

‘Mahal, that was unpleasant,’ Thorin murmured to Bilbo as they moved away, unable to help looking back.

‘The night is warm enough and Anath will not leave him there long,’ Bilbo reassured, as much for his own benefit as Thorin’s. ‘Come along.’

Together they hurried to the place where their boat was moored, Bilbo climbing in reluctantly even as Thorin moved to push it off the riverbank. Fíli and Kíli used the oars to push them out into the river and down towards Minas Morgul.

Was it their destination that made him so uneasy, Bilbo wondered. Or was it what they had done to get there?

****** 


	38. Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little catching up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to everyone who has been so patient for the last month while I've been gone. Between work and headaches I hadn't written a word since the last chapter was posted, but things are now starting to calm down so hopefully I'll be able to get Remember moving forward again.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Changed

Alnir sat with Lady Galadriel for some time before Sigrid and Bofur rejoined them. While none of the rooms in Orthanc were particularly comfortable, in his admittedly biased opinion, Saruman seemed to have ignored the lower levels for the most part. So while the room they had chosen to wait in was dusty and not the sort of place one would normally have found the Lady of Lothlórien, it was at least free of evil-looking pieces of equipment and cast-off orcish weapons. Clearly the orcs had worked on the theory ‘out of Saruman’s sight, out of mind’. The room also had the virtue of having a window, which Alnir was definitely in favour of. The more he could see of the outside world the better.

When his friends did eventually appear one look at Sigrid’s face was enough to tell him what had happened. He let out a whoop of joy, jumped to his feet and tugged her into a hug.

‘Finally!!’ Alnir exclaimed. ‘I was beginning to worry that I really would have to kill him.’

‘How would killing him have solved anything?’ Sigrid asked, before shaking her head. ‘Never mind, it will only make me despair if you tell me.’

Alnir laughed, then looked down at Bofur with a gimlet eye. Much of the time he did not notice the height difference between himself and the dwarves, but it did occasionally come in handy. Such as when you needed to threaten them.

‘If you turn into an idiot again…’ he began, before Bofur cut him off.

‘Then you will know it is me,’ the dwarf told him. ‘Sigrid will give me a good kick to make sure I know I’m being an idiot, though, so I doubt it will last too long.’

‘Fair enough,’ Alnir replied, smiling happily once again. ‘Just promise not to tell Bard until I’m a few miles away from him. Or Dori for that matter.’

‘Dori?’ Bofur asked in a worried tone, looking questioningly at Sigrid.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ she assured him, before stepping forward to speak to Lady Galadriel.

‘My congratulations as well, my dear,’ Lady Galadriel offered. ‘I am sure you will be very happy together.’

‘As long as we survive the war,’ Sigrid agreed. ‘Thank you, my lady,’ she paused, then continued with, ‘Gandalf _is_ well, my lady? Bilbo was so worried about him and I promised we’d bring him back safely.’

‘He has survived his imprisonment remarkably well, Sigrid,’ Galadriel assured her. ‘Other than the drain on his magic there is nothing wrong with him. I expect he will wake in the morning.’

‘No doubt just as grumpy as he always is,’ Bofur put in. ‘The way he went on, anyone would have thought that being captured was entirely my fault, and the bumps and bruises as well.’

‘If I know you at all,’ Sigrid replied, ‘which I rather think I do, you had a great deal to do with those bumps and bruises. Though probably in a good cause. My lady, could one of your people heal him?’

Lady Galadriel started slightly, then an expression of guilt passed briefly over her face.

‘Of course, please step over here, Master Bofur,’ she hurried to say. ‘I should not have left you in pain this long.’

‘Ah, it’s nothing really,’ Bofur reassured her. ‘Besides, the lass and I did have some talking to do.’

Lady Galadriel began cleaning the wounds, of which there were enough to make Alnir wince, then moved on to using her healing magic to undo Saruman’s handiwork. It had not escaped Alnir’s notice that Bofur had been moving his head rather gingerly, so he hoped Lady Galadriel could do something about the pain there as well.

Some time passed in relative quiet, with Sigrid and Alnir filling Bofur in on what he’d missed, particularly Thorin’s arrival on Thranduil’s elk, which had Lady Galadriel scolding them for setting her patient into fits of laughter even as she tried to repress her own. Not long after, Haldir, who had been keeping an eye on the goings on outside through one of the windows, called over to his Lady.

‘Treebeard and others of his kin are coming, my Lady,’ the elf said calmly. ‘Lord Celeborn comes with them.’

‘Celeborn?’ Galadriel questioned in surprise. ‘Surely the water is yet too deep for him to pass.’

‘They have found a way around that,’ Haldir informed her with a small smile. ‘Treebeard is carrying him across.’

‘And neither Glorfindel nor Thranduil here to see it?’ Lady Galadriel responded. ‘Poor dears, they will be so bitterly disappointed.’

‘Why do they tease him so much, my lady?’ Alnir asked curiously, reminded that he had been meaning to ask someone for quite some time. Lady Galadriel treated him to one of her blinding smiles.

‘My love is a very solemn sort of person to those who do not know him as well as I,’ she explained calmly. ‘Glorfindel has ever been of the opinion that he needed a little teasing to prevent him… I believe the phrase he used was “growing roots and turning into one of your own trees”. Glorfindel found a kindred spirit in Thranduil and so now they work together on it.’

‘You haven’t stopped them?’ Alnir asked her. When she presented him with an innocent expression in response he laughed. ‘I think you could do it if you wished.’

‘I have no doubt that I could,’ she responded with utter certainty, ‘but it does Celeborn no great harm and he is only truly bothered when he feels it interferes with more important matters, as it did at the Council.’

By this time the ents and Lord Celeborn had arrived at the tower, so Alnir retreated back into the corner where Sigrid and Bofur now sat and happily left the complications of moving an unconscious wizard across a flooded plain to someone else.

***

In the end Celeborn was not the only one to receive a ride across Isengard courtesy of an ent. It was the only way of leaving the tower and none of them had any great desire to remain there much longer. Bofur certainly did not, not after the days he had already spent trapped on top of it. It was a lovely tower, really, with a sweet heart underneath all the indignities it had been forced to suffer, but Bofur was more than ready to be elsewhere for a while.

So they were all ferried over to the main camp, where Alnir, Sigrid and Bofur were quick to set up their bedrolls so that they could sleep. Though it was only early evening they were all tired and ready to rest. Many of the Rohirrim clearly felt the same, and even the elves who were not otherwise occupied were sitting or lying on the ground. It was entirely possible, Bofur realised, that the elves were in fact asleep. He never had got used to their habit of sleeping with their eyes open, no matter how many times he had seen Legolas so.

When Bofur woke again the sun was only just creeping up over the horizon and the camp was mostly quiet. Celeborn had placed his soldiers on watch, but most of these sat in silence, apparently contemplating life or whatever it was elves did when they were bored. Bofur briefly considered going back to sleep, before realising that he was fully awake now and sleep would not be returning for some time. Instead he pushed himself to his feet, deciding to check on Gandalf before he found something for breakfast. A quick check showed that Alnir and Sigrid both slept peacefully, so he made every effort to be quiet as he folded the blankets up.

If he took an extra few seconds to do so (alright, perhaps closer to a minute), simply to enjoy the sight of his lass, now his betrothed, sleeping… well, there was no one around to tell any tales. For which Bofur was thankful. Nori would never let him live it down if he thought Bofur had gone soft.

Moving through a camp of sleeping soldiers, Bofur soon decided, was worse than trying to find your way home after a night of overindulgence in ale. The Rohirrim, in particular, seemed to have strewn themselves wherever they found room and Bofur was forced to weave left and right in a completely nonsensical pattern to avoid standing on anyone. How a group of people could be so organised with their horses and so disorganised with themselves was anybody’s guess.

Finally, however, he reached the pavilion that had been raised by the elves to shelter the wounded. Gandalf had been placed off to one side with a long piece of material hung from the roof of the tent to shield him from view. Bofur ducked behind it, looked carefully at Gandalf to check that he was still in one piece, and repressed the shriek of surprise which rose inside him.

Exiting the pavilion far more quickly than he had entered, Bofur made straight for the tent which he was certain housed the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Moving past the guard without giving him time to ask questions, Bofur reached up and thumped hard on the chime that hung from the front of the tent, designed to warn the occupants of a visitor before they entered.

Of course the guard was not going to let Bofur get away with such behaviour; if he had then Bofur would have had to have strong words with his commander. So, when Galadriel and Celeborn did exit the tent to see what was happening, they found Bofur and their guard in the midst of a rather heated disagreement.

‘I do not care who you are,’ the guard was snapping with great aggravation, ‘you cannot simply wake my Lord and Lady because you think there is some sort of emergency, dwarf.’

Bofur, who generally tried to keep calm in all situations, was both rattled by what he had seen and more than slightly annoyed at being called ‘dwarf’ in that tone of voice. Thankfully Galadriel interrupted before the argument could deteriorate further.

‘Bofur, what is it?’ she asked swiftly. ‘Is something wrong with your companions?’

‘Not exactly, my lady,’ Bofur answered, remembering his manners enough to give a somewhat slapdash bow. ‘I think you’d better come to the healing tent. Something… odd has happened.’

‘Odd?’ Celeborn repeated, clearly confused. He seemed ready to ask more questions, but Galadriel was already moving away, so Lothlórien’s Lord settled for gesturing sharply at Bofur and moving after her. Bofur, obeying the command in the gesture, followed them as well.

It was as they neared the healing tents that Bofur looked up and saw Sigrid and Alnir making their way rapidly through the camp, obviously searching for something. By the time they spotted Bofur they were close enough that he could see the relief on their faces. They sped up and crossed the remaining distance in a few seconds, the relief on Alnir’s face changing to a frown of irritation as they did so.

‘Can you _not_ disappear when we’ve only just got you back?’ the younger man snapped. ‘I’m too young to start getting grey hairs.’

‘While I am not,’ Sigrid interjected before Bofur could respond, ‘I would prefer not to have my heart give out on me before we even make it to the end of the war.’

‘I only went to see how Gandalf was,’ Bofur told them slowly in response. ‘There was no need to fuss.’

‘We’re feeling rather nervous right now,’ Alnir informed him. ‘Humour us.’

Bofur considered for a moment how he would have felt if it had been one of them who had been abducted by orcs and decided not to argue the point. Next time he’d poke one of them until they woke up before he wandered off. That would cure them of their nervousness eventually. They were both fond of their sleep.

‘More important things to worry about,’ he said instead. ‘Come on.’

Then he began moving towards the healing tents once more, crossing the remaining distance in a few steps. Inside he could hear voices coming from the corner where Gandalf’s bed lay, not just Galadriel and Celeborn but another as well.

‘My lady, I do not understand,’ another elf was saying as Bofur entered with Sigrid and Alnir on his heels. ‘He passed an undisturbed night, as far as I know. I checked on him myself around midnight and he slept peacefully. I do not know how this happened.’

‘Such things happen after great trauma,’ Galadriel replied with concern, her hand resting upon Gandalf’s forehead. ‘Why should it suddenly occur now? There must be something I have missed.’

‘Oh my,’ Sigrid said slowly, unintentionally drawing the gaze of the elves. ‘His hair and… his face as well.’

‘His face?’ the elven healer asked abruptly. ‘I can see nothing wrong!’

‘No,’ Sigrid told him, ‘not wrong. He is… younger? Alnir, does he seem younger to you?’

‘A little, perhaps,’ Alnir murmured, still gazing at Gandalf in slight disbelief. ‘I don’t know. I can’t quite look past the hair.’

‘Really!’ Gandalf grumbled suddenly. This time Bofur wasn’t able to repress his shriek. He didn’t feel too embarrassed though, for Lord Celeborn had given a small gasp of surprise, which was surely the same sort of thing when you were an ancient elf. ‘One would be forgiven for assuming that there was not a war on. Surely you have better things to concern yourself with than my hair!’

‘You’re alright,’ Sigrid said with great relief, stepping forward and reaching out to touch Gandalf’s hand.

‘Of course I am alright,’ Gandalf said, opening his eyes this time. His gaze, at first distinctly grumpy, softened when his eyes came to rest on Sigrid and Galadriel, both of whom now stood at the front of their little group. ‘It will take a great deal more than Saruman to kill me, though that does not mean that he and I will be having a friendly discussion when next we meet.’

‘I think that discussion may be some years in the future, mellon nin,’ Celeborn informed him. ‘Master Bofur disposed of Saruman quite thoroughly yesterday.’

‘Ah yes,’ Gandalf mumbled after a moment’s thought. ‘So he did. Well done, Bofur. You have my thanks.’

‘You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with him?’ Bofur asked Galadriel as quietly as he could. ‘He’s not normally this grateful.’

‘Rest assured, Bofur, it will not happen again,’ Gandalf responded, back to his usual sharp tone. ‘Now will someone please explain all this fuss about my appearance?’

‘Well, it is just that your hair is… white,’ Sigrid said carefully. ‘It was grey yesterday. We worried something terrible had happened to change it.’

‘One would think,’ Gandalf declared as he pushed himself upright, Celeborn and the healer both moving quickly to help him, ‘that the answer to this riddle would be obvious.’

‘Now that we know that you will live,’ Galadriel replied firmly, ‘I imagine it is. You can forgive us for a little surprise, however, old friend. It is not every day such a thing happens.’

‘That’s nice,’ Alnir cut in. ‘I still don’t know _what_ is happening, mind you, but I’m very glad that the rest of you understand.’

‘I don’t either,’ Sigrid commented at the same moment Bofur opened his mouth to point out, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on.’

Gandalf shook his head, though he seemed to think better of it immediately afterward. The healer stepped in to check him over instantly and Lady Galadriel, kind and gracious as she was, moved to clear up the confusion.

‘With Saruman’s choice to leave his path behind, he has been judged unworthy of the powers and duties given to him,’ she stated, now entirely calm once more.

‘He would have had some difficulty with both anyway,’ Celeborn added with more asperity than was his wont, ‘given his recent fate.’

‘Indeed,’ his wife said with a small raise of an eyebrow in Celeborn’s direction. ‘The result being that Gandalf has been imbued with those powers and has taken on those duties. We have a White Wizard once again. One with a better grasp of what is important, thankfully.’

Some seconds passed while everyone present mulled this over, save for Gandalf and the healer, who were engaged in a quiet battle over whether Gandalf was well enough to leave the bed. Bofur could only stay silent for so long, however. Especially when there was a comment just waiting to be uttered.

‘You wizardly folk really do take these colour assignments seriously, don’t you?’ he asked Gandalf, trying for a pretence of seriousness. ‘Do I want to know how the others turned their hair blue? It must have been bloody expensive, however they did it.’

‘Those powers Lady Galadriel spoke of have any number of applications, Bofur,’ Gandalf retorted with a severe frown, reaching for his staff without seeming to realise he was doing so. Bofur spared a moment to be grateful for the fact that it was nowhere in sight. ‘I would not consider silencing you to be a bad use of them, I assure you. Thousands would thank me for it.’

Before Bofur could respond Sigrid had stepped in front of him, blocking Gandalf from his view.

‘I’m very sorry, Gandalf,’ she began. ‘Truly I am. He would deserve the silencing and we all know it. There are some words I need him to say when this war is over, though, so I really can’t let you do it.’

Gandalf took the space of a breath to absorb all of this, though Bofur could see nothing of his expression. Presumably not a happy one, considering that his next words were growled as much as spoken.

‘There is always Iglishmêk, Sigrid.’

‘Please?’ Bofur’s lass responded hopefully. Gandalf must have caved in the same way Bofur always did, for a second later Sigrid ceased shielding him once more.

***

‘You have been waiting to do that for some time, have you not?’ Mahal asked his father dryly. As the Creator of the world Eru did not stoop to such things as rolling his eyes, but Mahal felt that the action was implied in his response.

‘He has been using our gifts and our trust, yours in particular, to forward his own evil designs and to help the greatest enemy of our peoples,’ Eru replied. ‘It is only sensible that I should take the first opportunity to bring what harm he could do to an end.’

‘My, occasionally thick-headed, child did a rather good job of ending him,’ Mahal emphasised, feeling that this was an important point. Given the rate with which his chosen turned to evil, he really needed every example of virtue he could find. ‘Your part in this was to promote Olórin,’ he continued. ‘You have ever had a soft spot for him, just as Manwë has.’

‘I do not have “soft spots”,’ Eru stated dismissively. ‘However, if I _could_ be said to have one, I rather think it would be for the child who interfered in the course of the world and was not even punished for it. Twice. Would you not agree, Aulë?’

‘I am never going to win a single argument again, am I?’ Mahal sighed sadly. ‘I am doomed to keep hearing that line of thought repeated for all eternity.’

‘You could cease arguing,’ Eru suggested with complete calm. Mahal simply sighed again.

‘Yes, Father.’

******


	39. Stewardship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good ruler protects their people however they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is, as I believe is the case with most authors, a huge amount of off-screen action or backstory for History-verse which never makes it on to the page. If it did the story would be even longer and would be so detailed it would probably bore you all to tears. Mentions do make their way into the story, however, because they are so firmly entrenched in my head I forget they haven't been explained. Sometimes they then become one-shots...
> 
> Anyway, if anyone is curious, or confused, about something that gets mentioned then just let me know! ISeeFire is very good at picking me up on it, so you wouldn't be the first to tell me I'm making no sense :D

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Stewardship

Once they had explained to Ecthelion their plan, the distraction that was being organised and the real aim of their Fellowship, neither he nor Denethor hesitated long before agreeing to help. Quite apart from the vital need to destroy Sauron’s power permanently, the fight which would take place on the Morannon would pull Sauron’s forces away from Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, which were otherwise very much in his mind.

Only one thing in their whole conversation left Aragorn baffled. Just as they had finished the most immediate planning, Denethor turned to his father and said, ‘We pull him out of Cair Andros now.’

When Ecthelion responded with a reluctant, ‘His family have threatened our supplies, Denethor…’, his son’s response was fast and heartfelt.

‘He threatens _our men_ with his incompetence, Father. We pull him out and replace him with Renath immediately. Supplies only do us so much good if we lose control of the river, or if we have no men to use them.’

Ecthelion did not take much persuading. Aragorn thought his first demur had been a token objection at most. He was curious about the subject of their discussion, but the last thing he wanted was to draw too much of their attention. He was, after all, only meant to be a Ranger.

***

The next day Aragorn was outside not long after dawn, watching the daily ritual of weapons training for those of Gondor’s army stationed at Minas Tirith. Thankfully for the Council of Lothlórien’s plans, Lord Ecthelion of Gondor was no fool. Since he had taken up the white rod of his office he had seen signs of brewing evil across the river and he had, in preparation, prepared as best he could for a possible war. When he could not find enough men in Gondor he had turned to those outside his country to swell the ranks of the army.

Not all of those recruited were equal in experience and skill, of course, especially the new recruits from within Gondor itself. Which was why Aragorn found himself watching the daily training session with a critical eye.

‘He needs to work more with those two lads at the back,’ Aragorn murmured to Elladan who, like him, was leaning against the wall of the training yard. The object of this statement was the training master, who moved among the sparring pairs of men to correct and guide their practice. ‘They paired themselves together because they are worried about sparring with the more experienced men. They need more help.’

‘You could tell him so,’ Elladan suggested with a pointed glance. Aragorn snorted.

‘That would certainly go over well,’ he answered dryly. ‘Imagine how Glorfindel would react if I began telling him how to train his warriors.’

‘This man is not Glorfindel,’ Elladan replied, ‘but I think the point is now moot.’

Which it was. The training master had spotted a sloppy blow from one of the pair Aragorn was watching and was moving towards them with purpose.

‘That is why we should mind our own business,’ Aragorn told his brother.

‘Hmm,’ was Elladan’s only reply. He did not speak for a minute or two, but when he did there was a slight tone of mischief which Aragorn recognised only too well.

‘Perhaps we should spar, Estel,’ he commented with false innocence. ‘It would not do for our skills to become rusty.’

‘What are you plotting, brother?’ Aragorn asked with a healthy dose of scepticism.

‘Plotting?’ Elladan replied, still trying for an innocent tone and expression. ‘I do not _plot_ , muindor. I simply make sensible suggestions.’

‘Suggestions which inevitably end in chaos, usually for whichever unlucky soul happens to get caught up in them. Just because Elrohir is not here does not make your scheming any less dangerous.’

‘You wound me,’ Elladan said with great melodrama, hand pressed to his chest. ‘Truly, Estel, you are a cruel, hard man.’

‘And you are an idiot,’ Aragorn answered. As he did so he pushed himself off the wall. Elladan’s idea might have been aimed at causing trouble - a wise younger brother simply assumed that this was the case even if he hadn’t managed to extract a confession - but that did not mean his idea was entirely without merit. The hobbits had not had weapons training since they had arrived in Minas Tirith. It was time to correct that oversight.

Once he had figured out where they were, of course.

He’d try the kitchens first.

***

Merry and Pippin were, indeed, in the kitchens. They had been conferring with one of Ecthelion’s under-cooks with all the solemnity of those planning an assault on a major stronghold. As they walked towards their room to retrieve their weapons Pippin explained gravely that the cooks of the Citadel had a most inferior rabbit stew recipe and that they were educating the young man they had been speaking to about the correct way to cook the dish. When Aragorn had started to laugh Pippin had glared at him fiercely.

‘These things are _important_ , Strider,’ he exclaimed. ‘Just because we are trying to save the world doesn’t mean that we can’t do other things as well. Besides soldiers march better on stomachs full of good food.’

‘I have no doubt that they do,’ Aragorn responded, quelling his laughter and trying to appease his young friend. ‘Hush, Pippin,’ he continued when Pippin stopped in the middle of the corridor and placed his hands on his hips, clearly ready to give a thorough scolding. ‘I am not making fun of you. It amused me, that is all. I could see myself trying to explain to your parents that I had been unable to return you to the Shire because you had been held hostage by men enamoured of your cooking!’

Merry laughed quietly, a sound which cheered Aragorn greatly, and Pippin soon joined in. They had both been a little too solemn these past weeks. Not that Aragorn had expected anything else. The loss of a good friend was not something anyone recovered from quickly, and Valar knew Aragorn would not be the one to tell them that they had grieved long enough. The two hobbits had always been close to one another, but since Sméagol’s death they were never apart, each leaning on the other when they needed to. He and Elladan had agreed to offer what comfort they could and otherwise leave the two to look after each other.

Still, it did his heart good to see and hear truly happy laughter from the hobbits. Their bravery and determination made Aragorn feel braver and more determined in turn. Determined, in particular, to ensure that they did not meet the same fate as their friend.

So he guided them to the training area once they were armed once more and put them through their paces for many hours. Resolute and uncomplaining the two hobbits went through the routines he and Elladan had developed for them again and again. Lunchtime came and went, but when Aragorn suggested that they stop Pippin told him that he needed to practice one set of movements again because he could feel himself falter each time he performed them. Somehow that turned into another hour of practice, until finally Aragorn put his foot down and ended the session for the day.

It was only then that he realised they had gained an audience. Not only some of the soldiers who had been undergoing their own training, but also a few nobles, a group of young lads whose eyes were wide with curiosity… and the Steward’s son.

‘He has been watching you almost since the beginning,’ Elladan told Aragorn in an undertone as he brought his brother a waterskin. Their conversation was almost entirely covered by the chatter of some lads who had gathered enough bravery to approach the hobbits and were now throwing question after question at them, talking over one another almost constantly.

‘With that scowl upon his face all the while?’ Aragorn questioned.

‘Yes,’ Elladan confirmed, ‘and that is new. Something has fouled Lord Denethor’s mood, Estel, and it would seem to be us. I think we had best tread carefully for now.’

Aragorn nodded his agreement, then moved over to the hobbits with every appearance of not noticing Denethor’s presence at all.

‘Enough, you two,’ he commanded lightly as he neared Merry and Pippin. Pippin was in the middle of recounting their fight with the Nazgûl, most particularly Merry’s rather dramatic victory, and the young boys were completely agog. ‘I will not deny Master Meriadoc his very impressive triumph, but we did not come out of that battle unscathed. Their parents will not thank you for filling their heads with fancies of glory.’

‘We were coming to that bit,’ Merry reassured him. ‘The part where you finish the battle and feel like you might never be able to move again because everything hurts and sword wounds are more painful than you ever thought they would be. That,’ he finished, looking back at their audience, ‘is why you have to practice every day, even when you can think of things you’d rather be doing. You need to be fit and you need to be able to avoid getting hit.’

His small crowd of admirers nodded solemnly, accepting this as if it was a message from Eru himself.

Oh dear, was all Aragorn could think. What have I set in motion?

The next day, when it came time for the hobbits’ training, Aragorn found himself with five new trainees as well. All wielding wooden blades, all with the same determined expression. Not a one of them over the age of ten.

***

Lord Ecthelion had sent his apologies on the morning following their first meeting with him. He had been due to hold audiences for all of that week, so that any who had a complaint that they wished to bring directly to the Steward could do so. With Denethor acting as Captain-General, overseeing the preparations for the army to march, Ecthelion had decided to continue with the audiences. He had no wish, the message conveyed, to cause a panic amongst the citizens any earlier than he had to.

Thus Ecthelion would have little time during the day, but requested their presence at dinner three days hence so that they could speak further about the problems in Mordor. Summoning the armies was only the first step. Now they had to organise them and decide exactly which route they would be taking to the Morannon. Aragorn wished rather fervently that they knew where the rest of the army was, but for now they were in darkness.

As it happened, however, their meeting with Lord Ecthelion was pre-empted by Denethor. Aragorn had, on and off, continued to turn the issue of Denethor’s change in behaviour over in his mind. When they had first arrived the Steward’s son had been friendly enough, if more reserved than his father. He was also exceptionally busy preparing his country’s forces for war. So why, then, had he wasted several hours watching Aragorn’s training with the young ones? Surely he must have had any number of other things that needed doing. Most importantly, why was he suddenly so grim, when before he had been worried but easy enough?

The answers to these questions continued to evade Aragorn until the end of their second day in the Citadel.

Elladan had departed earlier with the hobbits, having declared that even heroes could only take so much weapons practice and they needed to do something hobbit-y before they started turning into dwarves instead.

Aragorn’s foster brother had left the room at speed, followed by a pair of hobbits uttering fairly good impressions of dwarven war cries, and Aragorn had found himself with an unexpected moment of peace. Following the habit of years, he had prepared a quill, gathered the parchment Elladan had hidden in his pack (and thought his brother did not know about), and began a letter to Arwen.

He had never sent any of these letters, the ones he wrote on the long days and nights when his duties as a Ranger of the Dúnedain essentially involved sitting around waiting for something to happen. It was a more common state than most people would believe.

Still he wrote them. The letters were generally rambling affairs, changing topic and direction as Aragorn’s mind did the same, often written over the course of a week or more. Thus a recounting of the mission he was currently on might be begun on one page, interrupted by a number of other subjects and then taken up again several pages later. Frequently the accounts became contradictory as Aragorn’s previous ideas about how he should deploy their forces, or which areas were the most dangerous and needed more patrols, were altered by further information.

Reading them would most likely give Arwen a headache, the first of her very long life, which was one of the many reasons Aragorn did not send them on to her. Even so, he always felt better for writing them. As he scribed the words he felt her with him, heard her comments on events and ideas inside his head, and often found himself looking at things in new ways as he wondered what she would think or say.

They were a comfort to him. He hoped now they could also be a catharsis. He had decided, rather suddenly on finding himself alone, that he would write to Arwen of Sméagol. Not only of his fate, but also of his bravery and the way it gave Aragorn hope. If Sméagol could fight against thousands of years of corruption to perform one selfless act, perhaps Aragorn could hold strong where Isildur had not. Perhaps Andúril really would help him to undo the damage his line had done.

Oddly for someone who had spent his life being called ‘Estel’, Aragorn had often found himself short of hope.

He had filled a page or two in this rambling style when a knock came on the door. Hastily blowing the ink dry and storing the letters in his pack, Aragorn called a greeting. When the door opened it revealed not a servant, as Aragorn had expected, but Lord Denethor, as grim as he had seemed at the training session.

‘My lord,’ Aragorn said immediately. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

‘Oh, I think you know that,’ Denethor said harshly, shutting the door firmly behind him as he stepped into the room. ‘You have been lying to us, Master Strider. If that is, in fact, your name at all.’

‘It is what I am called,’ Aragorn answered carefully, trying to assess Denethor’s mood. Denethor glared angrily and Aragorn realised that he had chosen a poor tactic.

‘What a man is called is not always his name,’ Denethor pointed out acerbically. ‘After all, I have heard you called any number of things in the last few days. Strider, of course. Brother. Muindor, which I suppose is much the same thing. Estel.’ Denethor paused for a second, watching Aragorn closely. ‘Tell me, Ranger, why is it that an elf of Rivendell names you hope in his own tongue?’

And so he was caught, Aragorn thought, all for years of habit. He had been Estel so long he had thought nothing of hearing it. Nor of Elladan calling him little brother. Curse it all.

Denethor had apparently taken Aragorn’s silence as a denial of some sort, for he took two further paces into the room, putting him less than a foot from Aragorn. Though Aragorn had a good few inches on the man, as he did on almost everyone, Denethor showed not the slightest hint of fear. Instead his eyes were full of suspicion, and of fury.

‘It was clear enough from the first that you and Lord Elladan were not telling us the whole truth,’ Denethor uttered harshly. ‘If you had only come along to guard the hobbits, why was it they were following you on your journey and should never have joined it in the first place? If you did not come along to guard them, then why were you involved at all? Why was it that you made no mention of prior acquaintance with Lord Elladan when the two of you are clearly close? I dismissed the inconsistencies, Father and I decided that they were unimportant in the wider scheme of things. After all, it could simply have been a mistake in the retelling and Mordor was a far more important threat. This is no accident though. This is no simple omission. He considers you his brother and neither of you made a single mention of it, nor of your role in all of this beyond another fighter.’

One day, Aragorn thought wryly, one day all of Elrond’s lessons on proper planning would settle in. One day Elladan would learn to put as much forethought into serious matters as he did into the practical jokes he and Elrohir inflicted on people.

One day was no help to him now though.

‘Other than the claim that I came only to guard the hobbits we have told you no untruths, Lord Denethor,’ Aragorn responded, forcing himself to calmness. ‘I have indeed known Elladan a long time, almost all of my life, and I consider him to be my brother along with his twin. I hope, in the future, to marry his sister.’

‘Marriage to the daughter of the Lord of Rivendell, granddaughter of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien,’ Denethor stated. ‘Not, I imagine, a privilege bestowed upon any man who asks.’

‘No,’ Aragorn conceded, ‘it is not. I cannot say Lord Elrond currently favours my suit. If we manage to complete this quest then perhaps he will change his mind.’

‘So Lord Elladan _does_ favour your suit and already considers you his brother,’ Denethor murmured, keen eyes locked on Aragorn. This man was a formidable opponent, Aragorn realised, and gifted with great perception. He was not distracted by this partial explanation. In fact, Aragorn concluded, he would not be distracted at all. He would make one last attempt though.

‘What does your father think of my presence?’ Aragorn queried. Denethor did not reply and Aragorn saw a flash of guilt in his eyes. ‘Ah, you have not spoken of it to him.’

‘It is my duty to provide the Steward with answers, _Master Strider_ ,’ Denethor’s tone emphasised his refusal to accept Aragorn’s Ranger-name. ‘Until I have those answers there is little use in distracting him from his business.’

‘Would he agree with that?’ Aragorn asked, then decided that such tactics were beneath him. What business was it of his if Denethor wished for proof before speaking to his father? He could hardly claim Denethor was mistaken in his assumptions, after all. Aragorn _was_ hiding something from them. ‘My apologies, Lord Denethor, that is not relevant to our current discussion.’

‘No,’ Denethor said sharply, ‘it is not.’ Even so, Denethor’s eyes grew slightly less suspicious at the words.

‘Can you believe that we mean no harm to your city, or your country?’ Aragorn asked gravely. ‘We come only to see Sauron defeated. I will not deny there is a secret here, but it is nothing that will disadvantage Gondor in this fight.’

‘I cannot say that I find that entirely comforting,’ Denethor responded. ‘As it is your secret, you are hardly likely to tell me that it threatens everything I seek to protect, are you?’

‘Do you truly believe the identity of one man could have such an impact on Gondor?’ Aragorn queried evenly. As soon as he said it he realised his mistake. Denethor’s eyes widened, he stepped back and surveyed Aragorn with dawning understanding and no little horror. There was, of course, one man whose existence would change everything for Gondor. Denethor was intelligent enough to perceive that.

‘You…’ he stuttered in astonishment. ‘You are…’

***

‘So we are agreed then?’ Gandalf demanded tersely as he looked about the tent that had been chosen for the council between the Rohirrim, the ents and the elves. Sigrid, seated next to Lady Galadriel, could not help hoping that Gandalf would heal completely soon. The pain made him even less patient and tetchier than normal. ‘We march to Mordor to help in keeping Sauron’s forces focused outside his lands?’

‘We do,’ Lord Celeborn agreed, Thengel and Treebeard adding their own assent a moment later.

‘Towards Osgiliath first,’ Lady Galadriel added suddenly. When Sigrid turned her head to see why Lady Galadriel should announce such a change only moments after they had settled on another plan, she saw that the Lady of Lothlórien’s eyes were closed and her face drawn in concentration.

‘My love?’ Lord Celeborn questioned worriedly, moving to stand beside her.

‘Only a warning, love,’ Lady Galadriel reassured, opening her eyes and giving Lord Celeborn a calm smile. He watched her carefully for several seconds then nodded and moved to stand behind Galadriel, one hand on her shoulder.

Would she and Bofur look like this once they had been married a while, Sigrid wondered. So utterly in tune with one another that whole conversations passed between them without a word said? She thought of the disagreements they managed to have entirely through facial expressions and a few gestures and concluded that perhaps they would.

‘Warning?’ King Thengel asked, both worry and curiosity clear in his voice.

‘The sight of the Eldar is not normally a precise art, Thengel-King,’ Galadriel explained, ‘but I occasionally receive a more specific…,’ she paused, clearly searching for the word she wanted. Eventually she settled on, ‘nudge. As I have done today. Sauron is more prepared than we realised, gentlemen, Sigrid. He means to march on Gondor rather sooner than I expected. They will need our help.’

‘Then we ride to Osgiliath,’ Thengel concluded, rising from his seat. ‘I will ensure the éored are prepared to ride out.’

The rest of the council followed his lead, Sigrid and her companions included. It would seem they would be joining battle again sooner than they had expected.

***

‘The army is ready, my Lady,’ a young messenger told Dís quietly as he joined her on the balcony overlooking her city. ‘They wait only for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she responded, equally quiet. The whole of Erebor seemed to be silent today. Her people held their breath, knowing their friends and family marched to war and that, one way or another, things would be entirely different when the war was ended. ‘I will join them shortly.’

It was tradition that dictated her actions now. As the remaining woman of Durin’s line it was Dís’ duty to see the troops off with honour. She would present the banner of Erebor to Dwalin, as Commander of her armies, and accept his sworn word to defend Erebor at all costs.

Mahal but sometimes she grew weary of this.

No matter, she reminded herself, pushing off the balcony forcefully. Complaining about the doing wouldn’t get the task done. Time she got moving.

The walk to the front gates had never seemed shorter. Dís was dressed, as was appropriate, in her finest robes and with a circlet of white gold upon her brow, crowned with the stars of Durin’s emblem. It was the one her mother had worn for formal functions and it made Dís feel braver, knowing she carried Dílna with her.

At the gate even the army was surprisingly silent. There was a little clanking and shuffling, as there would always be with so many dwarves gathered in one place, but only the occasional murmur of voices. For a breath the quiet was broken by the cry of a babe, then the little one was swiftly hushed by its mother.

The citizens of Erebor lined the area opposite the gates, gathered to farewell their loved ones. As Dís passed they bowed or dropped into curtsies, a rippling wave of dwarves broken only by the occasional pause; one poor lass couldn’t decide whether her breeches and tunic meant she should bow or her gender meant she should curtsy. She blushed a fiery red and Dís made sure to give her a genuine smile to ease her embarrassment.

Then, suddenly, Dís stood before Dwalin, Balin and the others of Thorin’s Company. No matter the occasion or the status of those present, the Company always took precedence. There had been no decree, nor was it truly proper, but no one ever disputed their right. These were the dwarves who had retaken Erebor, who had stood true when others turned away. There was no higher honour in Erebor than to be one of the Company.

It was not until Dís saw the elderly dwarf stood with them that she realised something unusual was happening. Once, Kune had sat on Thror’s Council, dismissed when the obsession with Moria had grasped Thror unrelentingly and Kune’s opinions of his rule would not be silenced. Instead Kune had taken a post in the army, training and leading dwarves during the War with the Orcs, determined that as many of them would ‘survive the King’s idiocy’ as possible. Finally, in the reclaimed Erebor, he had grown old and, eventually, partially blind.

They could not possibly be so desperate that they would take Kune to war?

‘Uncle, you are not going with them?’ she asked worriedly, reaching out to take Kune’s hands. She had always liked the older dwarf. He was rigidly principled and in possession of a rather legendary temper, but kind for all that.

‘No,’ Kune told her with a slight smile on his face. ‘I am not. But you are.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Dís spluttered, immediately irritated at such a lack of dignity. This was hardly a good start to the formalities.

‘Kune is to act as Steward of Erebor in our absence, Dís,’ Balin answered gently. ‘He has enough experience to put us both to shame and he is willing to use it on our behalf. Nula will help him with anything his blindness makes difficult.’ When Dís only stared at him, still trying to work out what was happening, Balin smiled. ‘The women of Durin’s line have been left behind too often,’ he stated firmly. ‘Not this time. Let us go and retrieve your boys.’

Dís took two deep breaths, then two more, refusing to allow the tears gathering in her eyes to fall. She would not cry in front of her people. She would _not_.

She would, however, let a little of her ever-present concern for dignity drop.

Without hesitation, Dís stepped forward and embraced first Balin, then Kune, then even Dwalin, who grinned far too smugly for her liking afterwards. She would have to do something about that.

‘I do not suppose anyone packed my spoon?’

******


	40. Wit and Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ring has a few nasty tricks left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one!

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Wit and Will

Originally they had intended to spare Legolas the burden of carrying the ring. Originally he had agreed with that decision. As the days had turned to weeks, however, and they all began to struggle with the attacks that the ring made, seemingly at random, Legolas had argued obstinately that it was more important to spread the bad influence thinly than it was to spare one of them entirely. Eventually the others had been argued around.

Now, it seemed, Kíli was beginning to regret that decision.

‘My turn,’ he told Legolas firmly, holding his hand out peremptorily as they walked along the western edge of North Ithilien. For a moment, Legolas was reminded sharply of the moment in Thengel’s gaol when Kíli had demanded that Alnir return another ring to him. Then the moment passed as he was overcome by annoyance instead.

‘I have not held it more than half a day,’ he protested irritably, rather louder than he had intended. Without really meaning to Legolas drew to a halt, turning to confront Kíli head on. Catching sight of Frodo’s nervous look he then proceeded to sigh wearily. ‘No, Frodo, that is not the ring speaking. It is _me_. Your cousin is an overbearing worrier. I am perfectly _fine_.’

‘Yes,’ Kíli retorted, ‘the sort of perfectly fine where you start looking a bit translucent. Perhaps you’re used to it, living among people who glow at random just to scare us mere mortals, but I’m a dwarf. I prefer it when my friends seem to have a little substance to them. Hand it over.’

Legolas glared at Kíli.

Kíli glared back.

The whole party ground to a halt, watching them with varying levels of interest.

Legolas wondered if he should be offended that none of those he travelled with showed the slightest concern at facing his wrath.

Then he remembered who he was travelling with, and the people whose wrath they faced on a regular basis, and decided it was not worth the effort.

Nor, despite his very real irritation at Kíli’s conviction that he did not know his own limits and would deliberately harm his own health, did it really seem worth arguing with his friend over a few extra hours holding this burden.

Legolas studiously ignored the part of himself which was glad for his dwarven friend’s concern. The part that began to feel thin and faded the moment he tied the ring’s pouch to his belt, that sensed the thing as a foul stench which pervaded the air around him for every second that he carried it with him.

The part which heard its whispers in his mind and, though he was never for a second tempted to give in to them, grew exhausted from the effort of focusing on other things instead of being furious at Sauron’s never-ending evil.

Legolas was tired, though elves were usually beyond such things. While he passed the evil on to Kíli reluctantly, he did so with a heart already lightening.

‘Thank you,’ Kíli said quietly as he did so. Legolas was thankful to him for making no greater show of it than that. In fact had he not protested, Legolas suddenly realised, Kíli would have made no show of this at all. His voice had not been more than a determined murmur until Legolas began to argue with him.

Kíli was simply doing his job as he saw it. Keeping them safe from themselves.

Poor dwarven prince, Legolas thought with an internal laugh. What a thankless task that must be!

***

The worst part, they soon discovered, of being the small group who were meant to infiltrate evil’s stronghold, was having not the faintest idea what the rest of their Fellowship were up to, or where the various armies they were relying on had got to. Thorin had told them early on that Erebor’s advance force had marched out to meet him, and that Thranduil and Elrond had sent out messengers to their own lands immediately afterwards.

However that still left any number of factors in play. An advance force was not the whole army. That would have to be collected from Erebor itself. Messengers could summon the armies of Rivendell, the Woodland Realm and Dale, but they could not make those armies march any faster.

‘It’s not even as if we can check,’ Fíli complained to Thorin under his breath, trying not to be heard by any of the others. ‘The Morannon’s at least 50 leagues away. Even Legolas would struggle to cover that distance quickly enough to be of use.’

‘Perhaps I should have kept the elk,’ Thorin responded whimsically. Fíli frowned at his uncle, then thumped his arm gently when Thorin seemed unrepentant. ‘ _Helpful_ comments, Uncle,’ he scolded with a hint of bitterness. ‘You’re meant to offer the leader of your Fellowship helpful comments.’

‘I seem to remember a certain nephew of mine rendering all sorts of decidedly unhelpful commentary to me over the course of his life,’ Thorin pointed out. ‘It is not so pleasant when the hammer is hitting _your_ thumb, is it, Fíli?’

‘Returning to the problem at hand,’ Fíli answered, rather than getting any further into a losing argument. This time he ensured his voice was audible to all of their Fellowship, ‘how do we know where the army is?’

‘We do not,’ Thorin answered, seriously this time. ‘Without being able to speak to others as the elves do, I can offer you no answers, akhûnith.’

‘I think we had better just keep going,’ Bilbo offered. ‘If it seems that the way is blocked by Sauron’s orcs then we have a fairly good indication that the others have not arrived yet. If the way seems clear then we will have to brave it. What else can we do?’

Nothing, was the answer to that question, though Fíli did not voice the thought and no one else did either. They were still themselves, still joked with one another, still laughed when they could, but they were growing grimmer as well. The journey was hard, bearing their burden was harder, and the further they travelled the greater the danger grew. Even so they knew they could not turn back.

In this case moving forward meant approaching Minas Morgul, which loomed in Fíli’s thoughts almost as much as Mount Doom. The tower was home of the foul Nazgûl they had faced earlier in the journey, once pure and now corrupted by the Nazgûl’s presence. Stories of Minas Morgul, and of the vale before it, were legion. Those who crossed the Morgul Vale, so the tales said, were watched by an evil that did not sleep.

Could they make it through unnoticed? Fíli did not know, but he feared the answer might be no. What they would do then was another of the worries that sat with him through both day and night.

Fíli shook himself slightly, trying to brush off the pessimistic turn of his thoughts. He could not afford to be drawn into depression when the others were looking to him for leadership. He also knew that brooding upon what could be would do him no good anyway. The only thing you could work with was what was, and that he would not know until they were closer.

He turned to look at Kíli and found his brother already watching him. When their eyes met Kíli gave him an encouraging smile and Fíli found himself returning it. Kíli had always been able to cheer his brother when he needed it and the last thing Fíli wanted was to worry his brother needlessly. So he walked ahead and joined Kíli at the head of the party, bumping his shoulder against his brother’s and making the sort of silly comments which provided Kíli with the perfect opening. Kíli took it, of course, and they were off again, driving the rest of the group mad with ridiculous conversations about nothing important.

There was no use in disappointing them after all.

***

It really was typical, Kíli thought as he surveyed the Crossroads below them a day or so later. Typical that Sauron could not make anything the slightest bit easy for them, had to throw obstacles in their way at every opportunity. As if it was not bad enough that the land around the Crossroads was a nightmare of slopes and climbs, stony, lifeless, somehow darker than even the deepest caverns in Erebor. Bad enough that their hours of sleeping grew shorter, that they hardly knew what time of day it was anymore and were almost always tired. No, Sauron had to go and make things worse.

Could he not have saved his preparations for war for another day? Or found some other way to occupy himself in his free time? Kíli was personally of the opinion that Sauron had far too much free time. If he had a mountain to rule – one with actual people in it instead of freakish dead men who didn’t know when to just give up and properly die – perhaps he would be as busy as the Line of Durin and wouldn’t need to try and take over the whole world!

Not that Kíli shared this thought with the others. They probably would appreciate it at another time, but perhaps not right now.

Right now they were a little busy being horrified at what they saw.

‘That is an army built for conquest,’ Legolas said slowly, voicing what they must all be thinking. Below, marching down the road to Osgiliath, was a seemingly endless parade of orcs. In the distance Kíli could just make out their destination; the shore of the river Anduin. A great number of orcs had already reached the shoreline and from afar they appeared as a living mass of black. ‘This is no skirmish. He means to take Gondor now.’

‘The men at Osgiliath will be slaughtered,’ Bilbo said worriedly, looking west and peering down at the river. ‘They cannot hold out against so great a force.’

‘They’re strong,’ Kíli tried to reassure him. ‘They must be, to have faced this place so long and still be standing, still holding their position. They’ll have scouts watching the far river bank and they’ll have time to pull out before the orcs reach the far bank.’

‘And if they do not pull out?’ Bilbo asked sharply, before gentling his tone. ‘I have listened to the lot of you for a long time, Kíli. I know how Thorin would command this battle. He would not retreat and risk letting the orcs into the undefended lands beyond Osgiliath.’

‘If there was no way that my soldiers could stop the orcs, if all they could do there was die, then I would retreat,’ Thorin replied firmly before Kíli could speak again. ‘They will pull out, Bilbo, I promise.’

‘I hope so,’ Bilbo murmured. ‘Oh, I hope so.’ Then he visibly forced his mind to other matters.

‘Why not wait until he has the ring?’ their hobbit queried, though it was more to himself than the others. ‘We know he is still searching for it, he had the Nazgûl abroad chasing us halfway across the world to try and get it.’

‘Unless he thinks it beyond his reach for now,’ Fíli posited. He was looking at Uncle, thinking so hard Kíli could almost see the gears turning. ‘He lost us, after all. Perhaps he lost the others as well. If the Nazgûl could not find them…’

‘Then it might seem to Sauron that he should crush Gondor first,’ Thorin returned, nodding slowly, ‘consolidate his power here and deal with the enemies on his doorstep before he continues his search.’

‘Unfortunately that doesn’t actually help us with the army down there,’ Frodo reminded them. ‘We need to get into Minas Morgul and that,’ he waved his hand at the stream of orcs exiting the gates, ‘is going to be a big problem.’

‘Perhaps not so great as we fear,’ Legolas stated then. As they had been speaking Legolas had been scanning the land in front of them and now his eyes were fixed on something. To Kíli it looked like nothing more than a bridge over a murky-looking stream, joining the road up to Minas Morgul to the road leading down to Osgiliath.

‘Legolas?’ Fíli asked in a whisper as their friend continued to stare.

‘This must be what Gandalf meant for us to find,’ Legolas answered equally softly. ‘There is a gap there, and the smallest of paths leading up into the mountains. If we take that path we will not be walking straight up to the Witch-King’s front door.’

‘I am entirely in favour of not walking up to the front door,’ Bilbo told them with an attempt at levity, ‘even if it is terribly bad-mannered of us.’

‘I think the question of manners becomes defunct when the host in question is likely to lop your head off just for knocking,’ Thorin assured him. He had reached out and wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and held his other out for Frodo to slide under. It was then that Kíli realised that both of the hobbits were shaking. Looking down he realised his own hands were doing the same and he just hadn’t noticed.

‘There is evil here,’ Legolas stated. ‘Not just the orcs and the dangers we can see. It has seeped into the land itself.’

‘It was bound to,’ Fíli commented. ‘The earth is not immune to what we do to it.’

Curious suddenly, Kíli reached down and pressed his hand to the ground as Bifur had once shown him. Then he listened.

At first he heard nothing, but he had expected that. Without the talent Bifur and Bofur claimed this was never going to be easy, especially not in a land other than his own where the stone did not know him and his people. Slowly, however, as he persisted he began to hear. It was unutterably sad, the sound of this place. For though it was a dark sound, the echoes of screams and the pounding of orcish feet, it was also a pained one. Some part of this place remembered what it had been. Some part still knew that it was not meant to be Sauron’s slave.

With a start Kíli pulled his hand away, saying nothing to any of the others. That would teach him to satisfy his curiosity. Some things he just didn’t need to know.

By now the conversation among the others had moved on. They still watched the parade of Sauron’s dark army leaving the fortress, but they also watched the side path, trying to work out how they could reach it without being seen.

‘They gather at the river’s edge,’ Thorin noted. ‘That’s far enough away that they wouldn’t see us.’

‘Only if the rest of the army stops pouring out of that blasted door,’ Fíli answered. ‘As soon as we got near the bridge some orc would see us, especially if we’re trying to walk partway down the road to get to it right past them as they march out.’

‘It’s tailing off though,’ Frodo pointed out. He was staring closely at the door and Kíli noticed that his fingers were tapping rapidly on the ground, one after another. Each time he reached the little finger on his left hand Frodo mouthed something and started again. Counting, Kíli realised.

‘There,’ Frodo said quickly as a gap appeared in the train of orcs, ‘only sixty in that group when there were well over a hundred in the first we saw. These are the smaller ones, and the less well-trained, I think. There can’t be many smaller than that on their way.’

‘We wait, then,’ Fíli said decisively. ‘Rest here, as much as we can, then make our way down when they’re done moving down there. That path’s our best option, we’re going to have to try it.’

They were all silent after that. They settled down on the ground, Fíli asserting that he would take the watch while the others slept. Frodo settled close to Bilbo, taking his uncle’s hand in his own. Bilbo gripped tightly, leaning over to kiss Frodo on the forehead as he would have done when Frodo was a faunt still. With a quick glance at one another Thorin and Kíli moved to settle on either side of the pair, offering their support as well.

Kíli had thought it would take him a long time to fall asleep in such an inhospitable place. As it happened, however, he was asleep before he even realised his eyes were closing.

***

A few hours later Kíli woke to the sound of his brother hissing his name. Legolas, he saw as he sat up, was already awake and moving to clear his bedroll away. With a quick flick of his hand Fíli commanded Kíli to wake Frodo while he took care of Uncle and Bilbo. Once Kíli had done so he moved to look over the edge of the ridge they had settled on. No movement came from Minas Morgul. No tramping of booted feet could be heard. The movement of Sauron’s army was complete.

It was a grim party that picked its way down to the road, silent and focused only on making as little noise as possible. Every step along the bridge was made with their breath held, every small clink or thud was greeted with concern and, in some cases, closed eyes and voiceless prayers. Kíli was more anxious in this moment than he had been since he scaled a pillar to try and blind a dragon.

Finally they reached the gap in the bridge wall and Uncle, at the head of the group, turned off, moving forward onto the path. It was lit to some extent, seeming to reflect the poisonous light that radiated from Minas Morgul itself, though it darkened further up. Kíli was towards the back of the party, only Bilbo behind him, and as he crossed through the gap he turned to see if Bilbo needed any help.

What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

Bilbo was no longer moving. Staring at the road leading up to Minas Morgul he seemed transfixed for an instant, then began to walk jerkily towards the door. His body was at the oddest angle, the top half further back than the lower half, as if someone had tied a rope around his waist and was pulling him along.

All of this Kíli recognised in an instant that seemed to last a lifetime. Then the world sped up and he felt himself sprinting forward, not daring to call Bilbo’s name but desperate to reach him before the hobbit went any further. His desperation only increased when he saw Bilbo’s right hand, which had been near his waist, rising up with a gleam of gold stealing out from between his clasped fingers.

‘NO!’ Kíli shouted within his head. He could not tell whether any of the others had noticed what was happening, could not stop to think of how they might react. Bilbo turned towards him as Kíli ran, perhaps alerted by the sudden noise of his footsteps, and Kíli saw that their hobbit was poised to place the ring upon his finger.

For a brief moment disaster loomed. The sky lit up with a red light that had been absent only seconds before. A shrieking noise could be heard from Minas Morgul.

Kíli covered the last few feet before him in two great leaps and, even as his eyes took in the sight of Bilbo coming back to himself, yanking the ring down and away from his hand, throwing off its terrible influence once more, he reached out, grabbed the ring in one hand and Bilbo in the other and threw both of them to the ground.

Senses restored, Bilbo instantly reached out and pulled both of their hoods up, doing his best to make them invisible to any eyes which might be searching. Kíli felt the light fade away, the red glow disappearing as quickly as it had come. Despite his fears, no movement could be heard from Minas Morgul. The gates remained shut.

It was only then that Kili had the time to register what else was happening. When he had dropped to the ground he had loosed the ring and left it on the road beneath him, illogically hoping that he could smother its evil with the bulk of his body. Immediately the ring had begun to burn with malice.

Only this time it was not a burning inside him.

This time the ring was actually eating at him like acid, causing a pain that was truly indescribable. Still caught in the throes of panic Kíli didn’t immediately move away from the ring, still unsure that they were safe. Then he had no choice. The pain was simply too much.

He rolled away just as the others reached him and Bilbo, unfortunately just in time to showcase the burnt hole in his tunic, through his shirt and into his skin. Fíli let out an involuntary gasp of horror, reaching for Kíli with eyes overcome by worry.

‘I’m alright,’ Kíli tried to say, though he was gasping with agony and couldn’t be sure how clearly it came out. Not clearly enough to convince his brother, at least. Fíli dropped to the ground beside him, hands hovering over Kíli’s skin as he suddenly realised he didn’t know what he could do that would help.

‘Ring,’ Kíli said with the last of his energy.

‘I have it,’ Bilbo answered, voice shaking. ‘It’s… stopped again.’ Kíli couldn’t turn his head to look at him, could only hope that Uncle was taking care of their hobbit.

‘We need to move on,’ Legolas said, reluctance clear in every syllable. ‘I can carry him. We can’t stay here.’

Fíli clearly wanted to argue, opened his mouth to do so and then shut it again sharply. Legolas was right and he knew it.

‘ _Carefully_ ,’ he urged Legolas as their elven friend leant down to lift Kíli up. Kíli tried to brace himself for the movement, knowing it was going to hurt even more than lying still, but found himself overwhelmed by the agony anyway. He passed out in an instant and stayed that way until he felt water being poured between his lips some time later.

***

They walked as fast as they could, using the side path which climbed towards the mountains, taking less care to be quiet than they might have otherwise and instead pushing ahead to try and put as much space between them and the Morgul Vale as possible. Almost two hours after they had set out Fíli finally called a halt in a place where a large rock rose sharply on the right side of the path, blocking them from the sight of anyone below.

As soon as they had come to a halt he made his way to Legolas’ side. Their elven friend had murmured ceaselessly as they walked; pouring, Fíli was sure, all the healing magic he had at disposal into Kíli’s wound. Even so it looked horrifying when Fíli pulled the burnt clothing away, the skin red and charred.

‘I managed to burn out the infection,’ Legolas hurried to tell them. Fíli was not the only one who shuddered at the word burn. Bilbo looked nauseous and subsumed in guilt, only Uncle’s grasp on the hobbit keeping him upright. ‘That was all I could do, though. Whatever the poison was it was virulent. I could not risk leaving it in him.’

‘You did more than we could have done,’ Fíli hastened to assure him, taking his water skin and tipping a few drops carefully into Kíli’s mouth. Though anger rose in him as it always did when his baby brother was hurt, Fíli forced himself to remember that this was no one’s fault but Sauron’s. Evil magic was beyond any of them to resist entirely.

Not that Bilbo seemed to agree.

‘What have I done?’ he whispered in horror. ‘Oh Mahal, what have I done?’

‘Didn’t… do… anything,’ Kíli forced out, eyes opening slowly and painfully bit by bit. ‘Stupid… ring.’

‘Hush, akhûnith,’ Thorin murmured, pulling Bilbo forward with him as he moved to brush Kíli’s hair out of his eyes. ‘You need to rest.’

‘Not here,’ Kíli ground out. ‘Not safe.’

‘It is as safe as anywhere we are going to find from now on,’ Legolas corrected. ‘Kíli, we cannot move on when you are like this.’

‘I’ll,’ Kíli gasped briefly, then continued, ‘heal. I’m a _dwarf_.’

‘A dwarf with more courage than sense,’ Bilbo uttered in a watery voice that made it clear he was near to tears, hand pressed to Kíli’s cheek. ‘Idiot boy. You should have shoved me on top of it instead.’

‘Hobbits too small,’ Kíli said with a slightly delirious grin. ‘No better place to hide evil than… under a dwarf.’

‘I’m not sure if that is proof that he’s well or not,’ Thorin tried to laugh, though it was sickly and without humour.

‘We camp here tonight,’ Fíli managed to say with a façade of calm. ‘Today. Whatever time it is. Legolas is right, we’re as safe as we can be.’

Frodo, who had been listening closely while he ferreted through their various packs, now moved forward with a jar of salve, more water and bandages. These he began to apply to Kíli’s wound with a set to his mouth which made it clear that he was assigning himself to nursing duties and would brook no argument. A few seconds later Kíli’s eyes slid shut again and Fíli knew he was asleep.

‘I’m sorry, Fíli,’ he heard Bilbo say, full of shame. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘He’s right,’ Fíli responded, turning to face Bilbo and reaching out for a hug. He didn’t care what other dwarves his age might say, Fíli still wanted a hug when he was scared or upset and he wasn’t going to forego one now. ‘It’s not your fault. It could have been any of us there today, you just happened to be the one whose turn it was.’

‘You were resisting by the time he reached you,’ Legolas added as Fíli released Bilbo. ‘I see better than anyone else here and that I saw as clear as day. Please do not let it torment you like this, Bilbo. It will play on that.’

After a pause in which Bilbo seemed to be thinking all of this over, he gave a sharp nod. His face was set and his body braced as if for battle, and he glared down at the pouch he had stuffed the ring back into as they marched.

‘I am getting very, _very_ tired of being this thing’s pawn,’ he growled. ‘That is going to stop. _Now_.’

Perhaps Fíli should not have believed him, given all that had happened. Perhaps he should have insisted that Bilbo give the ring to another of their group.

Fíli had known Bilbo and his stubbornness for a long time, though.

Watching their hobbit’s face, he decided that the ring didn’t stand a chance.

******

 


	41. Power Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Denethor both have their own struggles.

Chapter Forty: Power Struggle

A Ranger, Aragorn knew, did not always live the most dignified of lives. Generally they spent a lot of time tramping through pouring rain and sleeping in muddy clothes on muddy ground. Waking to find a mouse nesting in your hair and receiving scratches all over your face during your attempts to remove it did wonders for your humility.

Personally, though, Aragorn would have to say this was the least dignified he had ever felt.

Marching along behind a furious and determined Denethor of Gondor, trying to appear a little less like a child being dragged home by his mother after getting involved in some scrape or other, did not do a great deal for his sense of pride. As yet another courtier gave the two of them a curious look, Aragorn determinedly looked ahead and reminded himself yet again to live up to his moniker.

Striding was a significantly better than trotting, after all, when you were trying to look purposeful.

Finally the journey came to an end outside Ecthelion’s quarters. Denethor knocked imperiously on the door and it was opened swiftly by a smiling serving girl. Aragorn saw the moment when Denethor began to snap at her, stopped before he could speak, took a deep breath and began again.

‘Maraen, I would see my father if he is here,’ Denethor said carefully. His tone was gentler than Aragorn had ever heard it, and a moment later Aragorn realised why. Maraen, it became clear, was one of those whose body had outgrown her mind. Her smiling countenance held the untroubled happiness of a child greeted by one they liked and trusted.

‘He’s here,’ she told Denethor cheerfully. ‘I finished tidying his study so he’s in there now.’

Denethor’s smile held true amusement for a moment.

‘Did you have to ban him from entering again?’ he asked the girl easily as he crossed the threshold. She nodded firmly, hands on her hips.

‘Yes,’ she replied with a certain amount of indignation. ‘He kept _moving_ things.’

‘He is terrible trial to you,’ Denethor sympathised. ‘I will scold him again for interfering when you are working.’

Any sign of irritation melted from Maraen’s face just like that. She stretched up on tiptoe, kissed Denethor’s cheek and then announced, ‘I’m going back to the kitchens now. Jone’s making cake!’

With that she hurried out the door, slamming it behind her in her enthusiasm. Denethor laughed loudly for a moment, then caught sight of Aragorn and stopped abruptly. He crossed to another door and yanked it open, just in time to hear Ecthelion announce, ‘It is all very well for you to laugh. It will take me hours to get everything back in the proper place.’

‘The only way to prevent that is to tell her she cannot work in here anymore,’ Denethor responded, trying to mask his anger for the moment, though his efforts had the answer sounding slightly off to Aragorn’s ears, ‘and we both know you will not, so you will just have to bear it.’

‘Or put you to work fixing the chaos instead,’ Ecthelion replied with the tone of one who had made the same comment a number of times before. Then he looked up, saw Aragorn over Denethor’s shoulder, and stilled in the act of shuffling the parchments on his desk.

‘Is all well, Denethor?’ he asked evenly. For a moment he looked very old, and Denethor paused before speaking. Aragorn could only assume he was reluctant to cause his father any worry. Denethor moved forward and gestured for Aragorn to enter, then closed the door behind them. Habit, Aragorn assumed, for there was no one else around now that Maraen had gone.

‘All is not… not perhaps as simple as we had first thought, Father,’ Denethor said after a moment, his voice cautious but with a continuing furious undertone that had Ecthelion frowning with concern. ‘Master Strider is not who he appeared to be.’

‘Ah,’ Ecthelion said quietly. He paused for the space of a breath, then added, ‘I had worried about that.’ Perhaps Denethor looked surprised. Aragorn had entered only a little way and could not see his face. Something must have caused the wry laugh Ecthelion gave.

‘You come by your suspicious mind honestly, my son,’ Ecthelion informed Denethor, ‘and you knew that I already had some concerns about Master Strider. I do not have the full picture, however. Clearly you do. Please, both of you, sit.’

Aragorn did so, staying silent. He would do nothing to try and improve the situation until he had the lay of the land. Otherwise he would no doubt just make everything worse. He was doing well at that today.

‘You have the look of the men of Númenor, Master Strider,’ Ecthelion said calmly once they had both complied. ‘Their height, as well. And you come to us a Ranger of the North. None of that, I assume, is in question.’

‘No, my lord,’ was Aragorn’s response. The very air in the room felt still.

‘Yet you have caused my son great concern,’ Ecthelion continued. ‘One might even say upset. Now, how could you do that? Except by proving our suspicions true. By not being quite who you say you are.’

Here Ecthelion looked at Denethor, a clear message in his eyes. Denethor nodded. For a brief second a look of confusion come over his face, then it was gone.

‘I cannot give you his name,’ he told his father. The anger was back in full force now, threading through every word, ‘I confess I was in so much of a hurry to come here I did not ask it. Yet, even without it I know that… that the _King_ has come again to Gondor, ready to take his throne. Presumably with an army somewhere nearby to help him.’ The last was as much a snarl as anything.

‘I have no army!’ Aragorn protested loudly, now angry himself. ‘Where, exactly, am I supposed to be hiding one? In the hobbits’ packs?’

‘You expect me to believe you came to claim your birthright without one?’ Denethor asked bitterly, his face twisted with something that appeared very close to distress. Aragorn could admit to some curiosity about that, even in the midst of all this.

‘Why would he need one?’ Ecthelion asked quietly. Both of their heads snapped round and they stared at the Steward in simultaneous confusion. Ecthelion simply regarded them gravely.

‘The returning King needs no army, Denethor,’ Ecthelion carried on, ignoring Aragorn in favour of his son now. ‘There is no conquest required. Our line are the Ruling Stewards, yes, but still only Stewards. If the King has come again to Gondor then it is not for us to stand in his way.’

For well over a minute Aragorn could only gape, almost with horror. Was this to be it, then? Would he have Kingship forced upon him when he was in no way ready for it, all by some accident? Somehow, despite knowing the history of this country, despite seeing Ecthelion for the honest man he was, Aragorn had expected resistance to his claim.

He had not been prepared for Ecthelion to simply hand him the crown.

He was not prepared to _take_ the crown.

Aragorn was drawn out of his thoughts by Ecthelion’s quiet, ‘Denethor?’ The Steward’s son was staring at his lap, hands twisted before him. He did not look up, even at his father’s voice.

‘They have not come,’ Denethor uttered, voice choked with some great emotion. ‘Generations and generations have passed, one after the other, and they have not come. For so long Gondor has had no King. It has _needed_ no King. We have taken good care of this country, Father. You have taken such good care of her.’

‘I have tried,’ Ecthelion answered, as gentle with his son now as Denethor had been with young Maraen so recently, ‘as I believe we all have, to keep to our oath. That we will rule with the best interests of our people in mind “until he shall come again”. Yet, if he has come again, Denethor, then our rule is surely over.’

For many long breaths Denethor said nothing. Ecthelion watched his son closely. Aragorn did the same. What was Denethor thinking? What made him so angry about Aragorn’s return? Was it Aragorn he objected to, because of his lies of omission? Or was it the return of any king at all? Finally, and still somehow suddenly, Denethor’s body shook as if in the grip of great pain.

‘I would have been good,’ Denethor said at last, or rather gasped, as a dying man did for breath. ‘I would have been a good ruler, Father!’ It was the cry of a child asking for reassurance and Aragorn felt ashamed of himself simply for being there. This was nothing an outsider should see. This was a man facing the alteration of his entire life.

This was a son in need of his father’s comfort.

Rising to his feet, Aragorn paused only because he could not decide whether to cross to the window, giving the illusion of privacy with the reassurance that he was not running from them, or to leave the room and let the pair have privacy in truth. A glance from Ecthelion as he too rose, showing trust even though it had not been earned, decided Aragorn. He moved to the door, and saw gratitude in the Steward’s eyes.

***

What passed between Ecthelion and Denethor in the time that Aragorn stood outside the study he would never truly know. In truth he would not wish to. His childhood had been one of blissful ignorance of his heritage, but from early adulthood he had been King of Arnor, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and had been prepared for the Kingship of Gondor. Elrond had made it clear, in fact, that he expected Aragorn one day to do what his forefathers had not, to remake the Kingdom of Elendil.

How would it feel, he wondered, to be prepared for ruling from childhood, to live with and learn to love the people you would rule, and then have a pretender come to take it all away?

No wonder Denethor had not greeted his realisation of Aragorn’s identity with joy.

Afternoon passed into evening as father and son discoursed. At one point a nervous-looking young lad knocked at the door to ask about the Steward’s presence at dinner with his court. Aragorn reassured the worried boy that important business had delayed Ecthelion and suggested that it would, perhaps, be best if dinner was served without them. Relieved the lad ran off to let the fuming head cook know that there would be no need to delay any further. Aragorn felt nothing but sympathy for him. Even in Imladris, notorious for its peace and tranquillity, upsetting Elrond’s chief cook was not a course for the faint of heart.

Not long afterwards Elladan appeared with Merry and Pippin in tow. Presumably Elladan had followed his sense for gossip, which Arwen swore was better honed than all of his other senses combined. From the absence of the Steward at dinner to the knowledge that Aragorn was in the Steward’s quarters might be a large leap for some, but Elladan had made it easily.

‘Estel, what on earth is going on?’ was Elladan’s first question upon entering the room. Nerves a little frayed by all that had happened that day, Aragorn allowed his instinctive response to slip out.

‘Nothing that could not have been avoided if you ever thought before you spoke!’

Merry and Pippin looked up anxiously and Aragorn resisted the urge to curse. He knew that, in terms of years, there was little between himself and the two hobbits but he still viewed them as younger siblings after a fashion. The last thing he wished to do was set them worrying.

‘Denethor is as clever as you would expect one of his position to be,’ Aragorn managed in a much more even tone. ‘He heard the way we speak together, and the names we use, and drew his own conclusions. Unfortunately when he confronted me I was off guard. It did not take him long to divine who I really am.’

‘It was bound to happen, Aragorn,’ Elladan replied eventually, the implications of that statement having sunk in. Aragorn would perhaps have held on to his resolve to be patient for more than a few seconds if Elladan had not sounded so damned _pleased_ with this turn of events.

‘Was it?’ he found himself snapping. ‘I am glad you are so sure, and so content with what has happened. But then it is not you who may suddenly have inherited a kingdom he came here with no intention of ruling, is it, Elladan? For all your family’s grand plans, none of you will have your lives changed much at all. You have not one whit more responsibility than you did this morning. I wish I could say the same!’

‘Strider?’ Merry asked warily. That was all it took. Aragorn’s anger burned out as quickly as it had come. He took two steps away from the hobbits and his foster brother and sank down onto the nearest chair, head falling into his hands as he took several deep breaths.

Within moments a hand landed lightly on his shoulder.

‘I am sorry, Estel,’ Elladan murmured with complete sincerity. ‘We have pushed and pushed, I more than any of the others since we started this journey, but you are right. It is not my life I am apparently so determined to change. I am sorry.’

‘No,’ Aragorn forced out, raising his head, ‘I should not have blamed you. I could have refused to come, for all that you and Fíli argued with me. If I was not willing to take the risk I ought not to have made the journey.’

‘It is always easy to see where we should have turned when we have reached the end of the path,’ Pippin contributed. He sounded so much like Arwen, who must have taught him the phrase she loved so well, that Aragorn had to close his eyes against a wave of longing. Oh, to have her here with him now.

‘So it is,’ Ecthelion said. When they all turned sharply they saw him stood in the doorway of his study, Denethor beside him. Aragorn wondered briefly how long they had stood there. ‘Yet we do not always need to reach the end to grow in wisdom. Perhaps, friends, we should try to consider our path more carefully now, before we go any further. It might help us to avoid some of the pitfalls along the way.’

Unknowing of the turmoil that had passed earlier, Merry, Pippin and Elladan moved easily towards the study, moving around Denethor as he stepped out. Aragorn did not move, frozen in place as he met Denethor’s gaze.

‘Come, my lord,’ Denethor said at last. ‘If we are to serve you well, we will need to learn to work together.’

Drawing on all he had ever been taught by Elrond and his household, Aragorn looked past Denethor’s face, using the man’s eyes as a guide to his inner thoughts. It was not a precise science, in truth. The way Aragorn described it could not truly explain what occurred. It allowed him to see deeply, however, and that was what he needed.

He was relieved.

Whatever Ecthelion had said to Denethor had untangled the knot inside his son’s heart.

Denethor meant what he said.

***

‘To begin with,’ Ecthelion said solemnly once they had settled in his study once more, joined by the rest of Aragorn’s group, ‘I think we had best know your name. Your true name.’

Aragorn nodded, then said simply, ‘I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.’

‘Aragorn,’ Ecthelion said carefully, before continuing, ‘be welcome in your city. Gondor rejoices to see its King restored.’

‘Thank you, Lord Ecthelion,’ Aragorn managed to say. ‘I did not come here to claim the throne, however.’

‘Truly?’ Denethor asked, disbelief obvious. ‘You entered your country and meant to just leave when the fight was done?’

‘He did,’ Merry confirmed. The hobbits had placed themselves on either side of Aragorn on the long seat he had claimed, though Pippin had had to shove him into the middle to make room. Aragorn was not sure if they considered themselves an honour guard or bodyguards. Either way they had clearly decided to take his part in any discussion to follow. ‘He told us so. In fact he didn’t want to come at all, but Elladan was the leader and he convinced Strider.’

‘Leader?’ Ecthelion asked, slightly confused. His implication was clear enough that Pippin caught it easily.

‘Oh, did you think Strider was in charge?’ he asked, laughing irreverently. ‘No, we had so many Princes and Lords it was a wonder we could walk without trumpets blaring from somewhere! In the end we had to choose and Elladan was the oldest so he ended up leading us. Well, as much as anyone was. There was a lot disagreeing.’

‘Discussing, Pippin,’ Elladan corrected loftily. ‘There was a lot of discussing.’

‘It sounded a lot like disagreeing to me,’ Pippin grumbled at the interruption. Aragorn wondered if Merry and Pippin’s families would agree to let them spend a significant portion of their time with him. Life would be so much more entertaining with their contributions.

Unfortunately he suspected that, after receiving two separate messages explaining that their children had decided to extend their journey, both times without parental permission, the Tooks and the Brandybucks were unlikely to let either Pippin or Merry out of their sight for some years to come.

Perhaps Arwen would be able to convince them.

His attention was drawn back to the discussion at hand by Ecthelion taking up the thread of their conversation once more.

‘I must admit I do not understand, Aragorn,’ he said. ‘You are the rightful King of Gondor. Why would you not wish to take your place here?’

‘I am thirty-three years old,’ Aragorn began, only to be interrupted by Pippin’s burst of laughter. Turning, knowing the reason for that laughter, he flicked the end of Pippin’s nose with one finger. ‘Yes, Pippin, I am no older than Merry, I know. Thankfully Men grow up rather more quickly than hobbits.’

‘I didn’t think I was doing that badly,’ Merry murmured under his breath. Aragorn made sure to smile at him to ease the sting.

‘I have led the Dúnedain since I came of age, but as Elladan and I recently discussed that is a very different matter from ruling a country like Gondor. Arnor is a very empty land now, my people are Rangers and the families of Rangers. I have solved disputes, meted out justice as far as it was needed and commanded in the field, but for the most part my people manage their own affairs. They have little interest in making alliances and gaining lands and, other than Gandalf, the elves and the occasional hobbit, very few people have much interest in us. That is the sort of kingdom I am used to ruling. I simply do not feel I am ready to rule another.’

‘No one ever truly feels ready,’ Ecthelion told him kindly, his tone almost fatherly, perhaps at the realisation that Aragorn was of an age with his own son. ‘As with all things the skills come with time.’

‘Yet why should Gondor have to suffer my early mistakes when she is already ruled well by those who know her as I do not?’ Aragorn asked. He was beginning to understand in his heart that he would be King of this country someday, that it was simply the way his path was leading him. He knew that he was already thinking of it as his own when he was not guarding his thoughts. Still, he did wonder why arriving in Gondor meant that ‘someday’ had to be ‘now’.

Suddenly it all came clear, as if someone had taken all the tumbling thoughts in his head and fit them firmly into place. Like the first time he performed the movements of his practice routine without having to think about them at all.

What he really needed was time.

Time to learn the ways of Gondor as he had those of Arnor.

Time to see how Ecthelion ruled and understand the way his court worked.

Time to begin to feel like a King.

‘Perhaps it is my destiny to rule this land,’ he said, speaking to Ecthelion and Denethor as honestly as he could. ‘I do believe that I could do well, given time. That does not mean that I must do so now. If you would know the will of your King, then let it be this. Keep your place, Ecthelion. Rule your people, now in the hour when they need you most. While you do, I will watch and learn. When we both think I am ready, then I will take my place.’

‘It has never been done before,’ Ecthelion told him almost immediately. ‘It is a birthright, my Lord. No one has ever _waited_ to take a throne before.’

‘They have,’ Aragorn countered, feeling his conviction grow further as the idea sank in. ‘Anyone too young to take the throne has a regent until they are ready.’

‘You are not too young, though,’ Denethor pointed out. He had returned to the Denethor they had met, discerning and calm, sure of himself. ‘Our people will know you if you remain here, my Lord. If you took the throne later they would know we had broken all precedents on the way there. Would they not think it dishonest in you to live here so long without revealing yourself to them? Could they trust in you if you will not trust in yourself?’

That, Aragorn had to reluctantly admit, could be a problem. In truth lying to the people of Gondor was the one part of his plan which, as he thought about it, made him uneasy.

‘I think perhaps your doubt is blinding you to the obvious, my Lord,’ Ecthelion informed him, though respectfully. ‘Just because you become King does not mean I will suddenly disappear. Nor will Denethor. A King may have a Steward. If our Kings had not then there would have been no one to hold their place all these years. We can guide you. Others can as well. There is no shame in learning as you go. We have all done it.’

Aragorn forced himself to stop and think a moment. Had he allowed doubt to overwhelm him? Perhaps. It was the trait Elrond had tried hardest to break him of, allowing his failures to dominate his thoughts even after they were done. It seemed now he had taken to anticipating them before they happened as well.

‘Estel,’ Elladan said softly, drawing his attention. Once he had it, Elladan spoke to him in the elven tongue Aragorn had learned first of all. ‘You can do this, little brother. I know you can. Father knows you can. The only one who does not know it is you. Take what they offer. I do not believe they will steer you wrong. Nor will I, and I will not leave you.’ His mouth quirked wryly at that. ‘Not until you are so sick of the sight of me that you throw me out, at least.’

Somehow, despite his ability to frequently say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time, Elladan had found the perfect words for this instant. Aragorn felt something settle inside him.

‘Very well,’ he told them all, voice getting stronger as he spoke. ‘Let Gondor have a King once more.’

***

So it seemed the decision had been made. The blade had been reforged. The line had been remade.

Gondor had a King.

The one thing Aragorn had wished for so devoutly, though, was the one thing he was not destined to receive. A week after his arrival in Gondor, on the eve of the announcement that his reign would commence, a message arrived at the Citadel.

Armies had been sighted approaching from both the West and the East.

Armies of a strength Gondor could not hope to match.

Aragorn had run out of time.

His country was about to be overrun.

******


	42. The Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One should always expect the unexpected.

Chapter Forty-One: The Unexpected

‘Lord Celeborn, if you have a moment?’

It was an odd request to make at such a point, Alnir thought, when they were almost ready to depart. The temporary camp which had been made not far from Isengard had been broken down with all the efficiency that you would expect from the elves and the experienced Rohirric army. Other than packing his own things Alnir had done little except stay well out of the way. It might have been odd to another, to be both within and without the army gathered here, but Alnir had spent years fighting with the forces of Dale, Erebor and the Woodland Realm depending on where he was staying at the time. He was used to being one step outside the hierarchy of those he fought beside.

It was a place which allowed him to keep an eye on everything which happened, something he particularly enjoyed. It led to moments like this, when he was the first to realise why, exactly, the elven messenger just returned from Lothlórien wanted to speak to Lord Celeborn so urgently only moments before they rode out.

Oh, it was a good job Lord Elrond was not here!

‘Grandfather,’ a musical voice said cheerfully. ‘Grandmother.’ Lady Arwen moved forwards to embrace Lady Galadriel, who returned the hug with a smile and a knowing look which turned Arwen’s own smile wry.

‘Granddaughter,’ Celeborn said flatly, though he also returned his granddaughter’s embrace. ‘Imagine our surprise at seeing you here.’

‘A pleasant surprise, I hope,’ Arwen responded charmingly. Alnir recognised all the techniques of one trying to work their way out of trouble, mostly because he used them so frequently himself. Lord Celeborn also recognised them, unfortunately for Arwen.

‘You were to remain in Lothlórien,’ he told Arwen firmly, eyes sharp. Now she looked slightly uncomfortable, though you would have had to look closely to tell.

‘As I did,’ she answered him. ‘Now I am here. You have injured, do you not? You will have more if you intend to fight in Gondor as well. We have come to care for them.’ Here Arwen gestured at the group of elves she had travelled with, male and female, most heavily laden with packs of supplies but only lightly armoured and even more lightly armed. Alnir had known that the elves had brought only a few dedicated healers with them, but not that they had left so many behind in Lothlórien.

‘Arwen…’ Lord Celeborn began, a hint of true temper in his voice. He was interrupted by his granddaughter, however, and in her voice it was not just a hint.

‘Grandfather, I am aware that my father would have me locked in a dwarven treasure vault for the entirety of any and all conflicts. I am also aware that he is of the opinion that my disinterest in learning the arts of war means I will accept such treatment meekly. What he does _not_ seem to realise is that, as his daughter, I am one of the strongest healers left to our people. I will not sit in Lothlórien while you march to war and know that good people die when I might have saved them. You summoned your healers to join you. Here I am!’

For several seconds Lord Celeborn surveyed Arwen and the area around them was quiet, though further back Alnir could hear the Rohirrim adjusting their tack and the Ents continuing their never-ending discussion. This one had begun last night from what Alnir could tell. Most likely they had just reached the point of discussing the weather.

Celeborn’s face cleared gradually as he pondered his granddaughter’s words. Alnir had wondered if Lady Galadriel would step in but she had said nothing yet, only watched.

‘I have your word that you will not put yourself in any more danger than necessary?’ Celeborn asked Arwen after a moment.

‘You do,’ she replied, temper gone now and compassion clear in her face. ‘I have no wish to join the battle, Grandfather. I only want to heal those I can. I cannot in good conscience abandon them when they fight to protect us.’

‘Nor can we, my lord,’ one of the male elves who had arrived with Arwen said then. ‘We are called to heal, not to fight, but this war is no less ours because of that. That is why you sent for us. Besides, these are our families and our friends.’

‘You would have me believe that the fact that we travel to Gondor, and towards a certain Ranger, had nothing to do with your decision?’ Celeborn asked Arwen dryly. She looked surprised for a minute and Alnir expected embarrassment to follow. Instead the temper returned. Arwen’s voice dropped low enough that Alnir could not hear what she said, but Celeborn winced and it was obvious that the next words he uttered were an apology. The nearby elves all very politely pretended not to notice the exchange.

Then Lord Celeborn uttered a sharp command and several soldiers came forwards to guide the new arrivals toward the middle of the column, where they would be best protected. Arwen moved to stand by Sigrid and Bofur and, if Alnir had had to guess, he would have said they were being congratulated on their betrothal.

‘Sometimes,’ Alnir heard beside him, turning to see that Lady Galadriel had approached, ‘one must let the young fight their own battles. It would not do for them to rely entirely on others to do so for them.’

Alnir smiled at her, and received a small, mischievous smile in turn. He was fonder and fonder of the elven Lady as the days went by. In fact, if he would not miss his other friends so much he would consider moving to Lothlórien when the war was over. Lady Galadriel would make a wonderful partner in crime.

‘What did she say to him?’ he asked Galadriel curiously. She gave a tinkling laugh and took his arm.

‘Ride with me, young one, and I will tell you.’

***

The combined army of Rohan, Lothlórien and Fangorn travelled more swiftly than any other Bofur had been part of. The Rohirrim’s horses were strong and hardy and, though they stopped frequently to ensure the horses had enough rest, when they were moving the Rohirrim kept up a ground-eating canter that the elven horses matched easily. The ents, of course, probably thought that the army was moving surprisingly slowly. When you covered a mile in twenty steps, even a canter would seem like dawdling. In fact the ents frequently outstripped the rest of the army and then had to wait for the others to catch up.

The biggest problem Bofur had expected was with supplies. They had not marched out intending to travel over the border into Gondor. While water could be replaced easily enough from the rivers and streams which cut through the landscape, it seemed that food would be rather more difficult to come by.

Besides, when you grew up with Bombur and were close friends with hobbits you learned to always expect problems with provisions. It was just a sensible precaution.

What Bofur had not accounted for, however, was how Rohan functioned. Thengel’s standing army was relatively small and centred in Edoras, but the rest of his forces comprised groups from a multitude of villages and holdings. Even as they marched new groups of ten to fifty Riders, many of whom had been too far away to reach to Edoras before the army marched to Isengard, joined them and slotted into the formation. Some were clearly less experienced than others, but Thengel’s captains quickly took charge of those and, where necessary, issued hasty lessons in not running over the person in front of you. Thankfully the Rohirrim were, almost to a man, natural horsemen and their horses were not afflicted with the grumpy temperaments which characterised so many dwarven ponies. Or the sort of bad manners that led to someone else’s pony always trying get ahead of your own and so constantly having their nose up your mount’s rear end.

There was a reason the dwarves of Erebor did not field cavalry when they went to war.

Soldiers aside, however, Thengel had a system in place that would have made Balin jealous. A small group of scouts rode ahead of the army, leaving messages at every village and homestead they could find. By the time the army passed, whatever the people could spare was assembled and was handed over to another group which rode behind the main force. Each night this group caught up with the army and the supplies were added to the central store. They might not be large amounts, though the Rohirrim were as generous as you’d expect after receiving a command from their King, but they kept the army fed and moving.

At Edoras they stopped for an afternoon and a night, taking the chance to rest before beginning the final stage of the journey. They would ride hard from here on out, pushing themselves to reach Gondor in time to save the garrison at Osgiliath. Messengers would be sent on to Minas Tirith as they approached, but Celeborn and Thengel intended to break all protocol and march the army straight to the river fort.

They had to, Galadriel had told them all solemnly. If they did not the outpost, and its soldiers, might well be lost.

***

The Citadel of Minas Tirith had seemed, when Merry arrived, to have a hushed, stately air. It was an ancient city, the home of great kings of old, and it felt a little like Rivendell and Lothlórien, the same sense that the place itself was aware and watched the passage of the years without being much affected by them.

All of that had fallen away the moment the messengers arrived from Osgiliath.

The news had set the Citadel buzzing like a bee hive with activity, a constant stream of advisors and captains joining Ecthelion, Denethor and Strider in the war room to discuss the best steps to take, while servants hurried to follow the commands that were issued. Merry and Pippin had gone in search of Strider and Elladan to discover what was happening and had found the two deep in conversation with a group of stern-looking men who uttered the phrases ‘massacre’ and ‘disaster’ with a certainty that had Merry’s stomach dropping to the floor. He had gripped Pippin’s hand fiercely and said nothing, finding a nearby seat and simply watching. Pippin had said nothing either. They had no contribution to make to discussions of war, none that would be of any help.

Not long after their arrival the door had opened to reveal another captain of the army called to join the discussions. Ecthelion had looked up at him, then around the room, and finally had nodded sharply, apparently to himself. He had signalled to Denethor, who uttered a shrill whistle that stopped all conversation in the room immediately and left Pippin wincing and rubbing his ear.

‘Gentlemen,’ Ecthelion had said into the quiet, ‘I had hoped to do this with rather more ceremony than is now allowed us. Certainly it an occasion entirely fitting of such ceremony. This, unfortunately, will have to do. Gondor has a king once more; Lord Aragorn, son of Arathorn,’ here he bowed his head to Strider, ‘has returned and will formally take the throne of Gondor once all of this is over. For now it is he who commands this army and I stand as his Steward, as once my forefathers stood as Steward to his own.’

Complete silence reigned for a long moment. Some of the faces were confused, a number disbelieving, and at least one was angry, unless Merry missed his mark. Then one of the oldest men in the room, a captain with scars which proved he had earned his place fighting with his men, dropped to one knee, head bowed deeply. He was followed by a much younger man, also wearing the colours of the Gondorian army, then by another, and another. Denethor and Ecthelion also began to kneel, but Strider caught their arms and kept them on their feet. Then he released them and surveyed those gathered solemnly.

‘I thank you, all of you,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not been long in Gondor, but already I know that you have guarded her well. Let us do the same now, for we have matters of vital importance to attend to.’

Those gathered rose to their feet once more and Denethor began explaining to the latecomer exactly how many orcs had been spotted at Osgiliath (a number Merry could hardly bear to think about) and requesting information on how many men had been sent to reinforce the garrison in recent days.

Merry’s relief when it had been agreed that the men of Osgiliath would retreat to join the rest of Gondor’s army had been intense. He had known that wars required sacrifice. Sméagol had taught them that not so long ago. He had also understood the impossibility of all of Gondor’s soldiers surviving the war. He just hadn’t come to terms with the idea that the casualties might include thousands, that war might perhaps require an entire garrison to be sacrificed to stem the tide of the orcs.

It would not be now, of course. That was what had finally been agreed. The lives of those men would be better spent in a battle that they might be able to win. Even so, the thought of what had nearly come to pass had left Merry feeling sick and shaky. Nothing had quite prepared him for the reality that the plan concocted in Lothlórien might spell doom for so many people they didn’t even know.

Merry had wondered, as he watched Strider debate with one of Ecthelion’s commanders, if Strider felt the same way. These were his people now. His would be the final word on any plan developed.

How did you hold so many lives in your hands and retain the ability to make any decisions at all?

Watching carefully Merry had decided that, however you did so, Strider had found the way. Though he frowned with concern as he reviewed the map of the riverbank and the deployment of their forces, his voice was clear and his eyes steady when he gave commands. This must be the part of ruling he was used to, Merry had realised. Strider’s Dúnedain subjects lived the lives of warriors, they must do, for all hobbits knew that they protected the Shire.

Decisions made, those gathered had dispersed to their various duties and soon Merry and Pippin were alone with Strider, Elladan, Ecthelion and Denethor. Ecthelion had summoned one of the guards standing outside and had ordered the man to see that his armour and weapons were prepared, along with those of his son and their guests. Pippin and Merry shared a brief glance and Merry knew that they would be undertaking similar preparations later. They, too, would march out in the morning, though the men of Gondor would likely dismiss them as all but useless.

Perhaps they would be in such a great battle, but Merry had killed a Nazgûl not so long ago. Even if the thought of fighting made his stomach churn, he would not hide away when there was a chance he might need to do so again.

***

Though the plans were laid, Aragorn had to resist the urge to review them again and again, eyes locked on the map before him. He could not afford to second guess everything that had been decided. It would only lead to more indecision, and that was something Gondor’s army, and her people, needed him to lay aside now. Take your time to make the decision, Erestor had taught him in his youth, where you have time. Then, Glorfindel had always added, hold to that course of action as closely as you can. It prevented confusion and gave confidence to those you led.

Of course, Elrond was always the one to finish these lessons, often with an example of times when you had to change your course to avert disaster. It had only proven to Aragorn, even as a young man, that life was too complicated for hard and fast rules but still he did his best now to follow Glorfindel’s advice. He needed his people to trust in him.

‘It is a good plan,’ Elladan said calmly beside him. ‘If we are to face 25,000 orcs then it is far better that we do so from a position of strength. With the thousand men Ecthelion has been readying here, plus the forces we are expecting to arrive this evening and around 300 from Osgiliath joining us on the Pelennor, we have a far better chance of turning the tables on the orcs. If they have sense then they know by now that they have been spotted, but…’

‘Orcs aren’t known for their common sense. Or their ability to think,’ Pippin concluded for him.

‘It is a pity we do not have a few more days,’ Denethor said with a sigh. ‘500 knights from Dol Amroth and another thousand or so men from our outlying regions would not go amiss in such a battle.’

‘It is a pity Sauron is sending the orcs at all,’ Ecthelion pointed out, and Denethor nodded acknowledgement. The implication that there was no use wishing for what might have been was clear enough. Still Aragorn could not blame Denethor for wishing. They were so badly outnumbered.

‘Come,’ Ecthelion said after a moment. ‘Let us eat and then see to our preparations. If we are to ride and fight tomorrow I would rather do so on a full stomach and a night of rest.’

‘I don’t think I can eat,’ Aragorn heard Pippin whisper to Merry, ‘and I can _always_ eat.’

‘You’ll eat,’ Merry returned in a firm whisper, ‘because otherwise you’ll end up facing a group of orcs and suddenly deciding you’re starving. No one’s going to stop the battle so you can have afternoon tea.’

It sounded stern, even harsh, but Aragorn knew it covered grave worry. He reached out to rest a hand on each of their shoulders and tried for a reassuring look when they focused on him.

‘It is normal to feel like this,’ he told them. ‘I imagine you both remember the feeling from when we faced the Nazgûl. It will settle once you begin eating,’ this he aimed at Pippin, ‘and you will sleep even if it seems impossible now. Your body knows what it needs. Tomorrow is soon enough to deal with tomorrow.’

It was a sentiment Aragorn had always found helpful in the past. It was just a pity that it was uttered as one of the army captains returned with a slightly panicked expression, gripping the arm of a young lad.

‘My lord, we have a problem,’ Captain Neron announced to Aragorn, though he did check first to see who aside from their group was in the corridor. Thankfully the answer was no one. The man’s statement was followed almost immediately by a groan from Merry and a quiet curse from Denethor.

‘I will have food sent to the war room,’ Denethor told his father then. ‘I will not be long.’

Without another word Ecthelion, Aragorn, Elladan and the two hobbits turned and began to make their way back again, Captain Neron at their heels.

***

The poor Captain looked as if his heart was about to beat its way out of his chest, Pippin thought. He felt a deep sense of empathy. His own was trying to follow suit and Pippin wasn’t sure how to calm it. Deep breaths weren’t working, nor was trying to crush Merry’s hand in his own. He forced himself to relax his grip. If they were going to fight tomorrow then Merry would need both hands working.

Ecthelion ushered the Captain into a seat and did the same for his companion, whom Neron introduced as Dith, a young sheepherder who lived close to the border of Anorien. Dith seemed stunned, both to be in such surroundings and to find himself in the company of the Steward, and Ecthelion spoke to him for a moment or two about his home and his family, clearly trying to calm the lad.

Pippin tapped Merry’s arm and pointed at Dith’s frightened expression and Merry immediately nodded. They moved forward and joined the conversation. Dith, who had clearly failed to notice them before, relaxed slightly when he saw two less intimidating figures in the room. By the time Denethor returned, only a few minutes later, Dith seemed to be breathing normally. Pippin’s heart was still doing a rather irritating jig but at least he was getting more used to it.

‘Captain,’ Ecthelion invited, and Neron sat up straight as he began to speak. The look of panic was gone and instead Pippin could see a man who would be able to command the respect of his soldiers.

‘Apologies, my lords,’ he said first. ‘I fear I did not cover myself in glory just now.’ Strider shook his head in dismissal.

‘Bad news, which I am assuming you have, is always troubling,’ he replied. ‘There is no need to apologise.’ The Captain was clearly relieved.

‘Dith arrived in the city this morning,’ he explained. ‘He has ridden hard to bring us his news. Three mornings ago, an hour or two before sunrise, he saw an army approaching from the north.’

‘Monsters,’ Dith added, fear filling his voice despite being surrounded by city walls and guards. ‘They were great, twisted monsters.’

‘What sort of monsters?’ Denethor asked the lad. He received a helpless shrug in response, before a tap from Neron reminded Dith of his manners.

‘It was dark,’ Dith said softly. ‘I know they were big, too big to be people, and they made the ground shake even though they were far away. All of the sheep ran away. I thought Master Fedrun would murder me when I got back, but I told him what I saw and he said I should come here instead.’

‘Could you see anything else?’ Ecthelion questioned him. ‘How did you know it was an army?’

‘They were on the ridge that marks of the end of Widow Trasser’s fields,’ Dith replied. ‘The sun wasn’t coming up yet but the night was getting a bit lighter. Not on the ridge though. They were a great big black shadow all the way along. I could hear them too. They were making this noise, but it wasn’t a human noise, it was horrible. Like growling. I thought they were going to eat me! Master Fedrun was going to send everybody into the woods so that they couldn’t find them and eat them.’

Clearly the poor lad was terrified of being eaten, which was an entirely natural fear. Pippin imagined if he’d seen an army of monsters he’d be terrified too.

‘Thank you, Dith,’ Denethor said then, voice completely calm. He crossed to the door, opened it and gestured to the remaining guard. ‘Master Dith has travelled a long way to give us news,’ he told the man. ‘Take him to the kitchens and see that he’s fed well. Captain Neron will come for him when we are done.’

Even as Denethor spoke a trio of servants could be seen approaching with trays of food for the Steward and his companions. Denethor smiled and winked conspiratorially at Dith, whose eyes had gone wide at the sight of so much fine food.

‘Some of what we are about to eat will do very well, I should think,’ Denethor told the guard. The man nodded and began guiding Dith away. Denethor stepped back to let the laden servants enter and as they began to lay the food out Pippin heard a yelled, ‘Thank you!’

‘He seems to be good lad,’ Captain Neron said. Pippin got the impression that the man was deliberately filling the silence with inconsequential chatter until they were alone again. ‘Manners are a bit ragged but he was rather overwhelmed.’

‘This city’s enough to overwhelm anyone the first time they come here,’ Merry answered with the knowledge of one who had recently been in Dith’s shoes. ‘It takes some getting used to.’

‘I suppose it does,’ the Captain responded. ‘You forget, after you have been here a few years.’

Then, their job done, the servants exited the room and the door shut behind them once more. Pippin, remembering Strider’s earlier words, reached for a roll and some cold ham even though the churning nausea was back and stronger than ever. An army of monsters in the north when they had another army of monsters facing them at Osgiliath?

Nothing good could come of this.

‘You believe him?’ Ecthelion asked Captain Neron as he, too, served himself.

‘I do, my lord,’ Neron asserted. ‘He could not tell me much but none of what he said struck me as a lie. It would have been better if he had been able to give us some idea of numbers, or a better description of what we are facing, but he is only a boy and most grown men panic when faced with a single orc, let alone an army of them.’

‘Poor child,’ Elladan commented. ‘It is no wonder he ran.’

‘Where could such an army be coming from?’ Denethor asked, almost to himself. ‘Osgiliath is one thing, we knew Sauron was to the south, but from Anorien? North are our own lands and after that the Rohirrim. They cannot be coming from Thengel, surely!’

‘Saruman,’ Ecthelion said, no more than a breath but venom audible in the word. ‘You said that he had been raising an army of orcs,’ he pointed out to Strider and Elladan.

‘We did,’ Strider acknowledged. ‘You think he would attack Gondor?’

‘He is no friend of Gondor,’ Ecthelion replied with utter certainty. ‘My father was not yet cold in his tomb when Saruman seized Isengard for his own. He tried our strength and I would not face him then. I had bigger problems.’

‘As we do now,’ Denethor added. ‘We cannot fight both armies, Father. If Saruman marches against us then he will find our backs entirely unprotected. We must face the orcs near Osgiliath or we will be overrun.’

‘We cannot be sure it is Saruman,’ Elladan interjected. When they all turned to him he held his hands out, palms facing up towards the ceiling. ‘We cannot. When we parted from the rest of our Fellowship three of them intended to go to Rohan and request Thengel’s aid against Saruman. They could have succeeded.’

‘Then who would it be, if not Saruman?’ Ecthelion asked harshly. 'Who else could field creatures in battle that would terrify a young boy?' To that Elladan clearly had no reply.

‘We should send scouts north,’ Strider stated firmly. When Pippin looked at him, a second or so before the others, he could see a niggling worry represented in Aragorn’s deep frown. It disappeared almost in an instant and it was possible the others had not caught it at all.

‘Can we afford to spare the men?’ Denethor asked worriedly.

‘One or two will make no difference in the fight to come,’ Aragorn replied. ‘If we have a second enemy approaching we must know their numbers. A small force could be dealt with. We could proceed towards Osgiliath and leave a section of the army behind to defend the city. If they are stationed on the Pelennor they could block an incoming army if need be. Then they could rejoin us once they are done.’

‘A large force would be our undoing,’ Ecthelion contributed, years weighing heavily on him all of a sudden. ‘I ought to have dealt with Saruman when this all started.’

‘Father,’ Denethor said quietly. Ecthelion shook himself slightly and looked up at Strider again.

‘If we face Mordor’s orcs with even part of our army absent then our chance of victory is far slimmer. We would need to march without any defensive force we left behind, but we may not have time for them to catch up.’

‘Perhaps,’ Aragorn conceded, ‘but there is no saying that the orcs mean to attack instantly. If they send out scouts of their own they will know Osgiliath has been abandoned. It is entirely possible that they will take that as a sign we will be easily defeated and will feel an attack is less urgent. We can wait some distance from the river and allow them to come to us. Most of our army is not made up of Rangers. They will do better in an open battle where their charges will not be hampered, rather than trying to fight in the confines of a collapsed fortress.’

‘That is true enough,’ Denethor agreed. ‘It is certainly worth a try, given how few options we have left to us.’

Ecthelion pondered for some seconds, then rose.

‘Then it will be as you command, my King,’ he told Aragorn. ‘Denethor, choose two men to scout and give them the fastest horses we have, no matter who they belong to. Lord Polarin has several Rohirrim mounts, I believe. We will leave the men of Lossarnach to defend Minas Tirith.’

‘Not Morthond?’ Captain Neron asked, then appeared to wish he had not.

‘We will need the archers to thin the orcs out at Osgiliath,’ Denethor answered in Ecthelion’s place. ‘Captain, our thanks for bringing this matter to our attention. Please continue to prepare your men for the morning’s march.’

Neron rose, knowing his cue when he heard it. Pippin looked down at the roll in his hand, still uneaten, and determinedly took a bite, then another. Merry grabbed some food from the trays and did the same.

‘Do you think the other army will be big?’ Pippin asked Merry quietly, trying not to interrupt the conversation Strider and Elladan were having with Denethor.

‘I don’t know,’ Merry replied, ‘but if it’s orcs like the ones Strider and Elladan fought outside Fangorn then I think we’re in trouble.’

Pippin, depressing though it was, had to agree.

***

The next morning Merry and Pippin presented themselves to Strider and Elladan for inspection. They had been outfitted with small sets of armour, at Strider’s request, not long after they had arrived in the city. They had been taken to an armourer, who had shown no small surprise at being told they would actually be fighting. He had asked them to describe their fighting style, which Merry had to admit had stumped him entirely. Eventually Pippin had said,

‘We do a lot of running around and trying to trip things up or stab them low down. Oh, and Merry sometimes jumps into the air and stabs things in the face instead.’

The man’s eyes had widened until they seemed half the size of his face, then he had visibly regained his composure and considered them carefully for a few minutes.

‘Ranger armour,’ he’d told Aragorn. ‘It’s quicker to make anyway, and I’ve a stock of leather from the last time they took on new recruits. It’ll be light enough to let them move quickly but tough enough to give them some protection. If they’re not used to mail wearing it would just slow them down.’

Aragorn had agreed and Merry had to say that their new gear was nice and light, while still making him feel quite a bit safer than having only his shirt and cloak in the way of any blade that came at him. The leather bracers they wore followed the same simple style. They’d both declined the offer of shoes, though the armourer had been sure they would regret it.

‘When you’ve a great orcish boot stood on your foot, Master Meriadoc,’ he’d scolded, ‘you’ll wish you’d listened to me.’

‘I’d feel very stupid when I tripped over because I was wearing boots, though,’ Merry had replied. ‘Hobbits don’t have shoes. We’re not meant to.’

Now, receiving a nod of approval from Strider even as Elladan quickly reworked some of Pippin’s buckles so that his bracers were sat properly, Merry still thought he was right about the shoes.

‘Perhaps we should have asked for helmets,’ Elladan said to Strider as he worked at a particularly difficult buckle. Strider shook his head.

‘They would not have been ready in time,’ he answered. ‘We’re lucky Denethor spoke to the armourer for us, or none of this would have been ready in time.’

That was the problem with being a normal height in a land full of giants, Merry thought. No one had any spare things lying around that might fit you. Aragorn and Elladan hadn’t had that problem. Though they both wore their own mail, bracers and boots, they had also gained helmets that actually fit and Aragorn had been provided with an overcoat embroidered with the Tree of Gondor. Elladan had borrowed a new sword belt after much cursing of the Nazgûl who had torn his previous one, which had apparently served him perfectly well for the last thousand years.

Less than two hours later they rode out at the head of Gondor’s army, including a company from Lebennin who had arrived during the night. Merry rode with Strider, while Pippin accompanied Elladan. Pippin had spent a good ten minutes bribing his horse with apples, in the hopes that it would save his feet. On the way to Lothlórien he had ridden with Elrohir, but had been too proud to admit that Elrohir’s horse was trying to bite Pippin’s toes every time Elrohir was distracted. Hopefully he’d have more success with this one.

The journey was as dull as Strider had told them to expect. They travelled most of the day, riding slowly so that the men could keep up, and Merry spent most of it admiring his surroundings, trying to remember all the riddles the elves had taught them in Rivendell and feeling sorry for the men marching behind them. It was a sunny day and they must have been sweltering by lunchtime.

They met the men of Osgiliath that evening, some twenty miles from the river. They looked exhausted and Ecthelion, after a brief discussion with Strider, ordered a halt for the night. Merry saw at least two captains order their men to help the Osgiliath garrison set up camp and several of the cooks hastily started fires and began work.

Denethor dismounted and moved to speak to the officers from the river fort, clasping arms with each one and, if Merry was correct, praising both their leadership and their soldiers. A minute or two later whispering broke out amongst Osgiliath’s garrison and Merry, who had followed Strider in their direction, heard word of Denethor’s praise passing through the ranks. A number of shoulders straightened and heads came up. Merry felt another rush of relief as he saw clearly the men Strider’s decision had saved.

They rose early the next morning, not long after sunrise, to reports that the orcs were still camped on the other side of the river and had shown no signs of moving. Strider and the others were clearly pleased by the situation, which gave them a better chance of pulling off their plan. Merry found that waiting for battle to start was almost worse than the fear when you were actually fighting, but he forced himself to ignore the feeling and pay attention to the conversations around him instead.

Human soldiers, Merry discovered, gossiped just as much as hobbits in a tavern. Someone had heard Ecthelion mention that they meant only to travel another ten miles that day. Another had been told by his captain that the men of Lossarnach were meant to join them before the battle started. Several had heard rumours of another army to the north, and when talk turned to this subject voices grew sour and concerned.

Somehow, though, they all managed to miss the arrival of the three messengers who presented themselves to Ecthelion partway through breakfast. They appeared so quietly that Merry would have thought they were hobbits if he hadn’t had plenty of evidence to the contrary.

‘Lord Ecthelion,’ one of the trio said happily, ‘might I introduce Captain Odhrán and Marchwarden Haldir. They come as messengers from King Thengel of Rohan and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. There is no enemy army, my lord. Only allies who have come to our aid.’

Merry could see Ecthelion’s frown disappear, just as he saw Strider’s smile of… vindication, maybe. Had Strider been expecting this? Merry wasn’t sure, but he certainly seemed the least surprised.

‘So Grandfather marches out,’ Elladan commented happily, rising to his feet, ‘and Grandmother with him. Sauron will be pleased.’ Ecthelion smiled but did not yet speak.

‘Lady Galadriel wished to speak to Saruman in person,’ Haldir said serenely. ‘Unfortunately she did not get the chance. He had a fall before she reached him.’

‘So you did march to Isengard then?’ Elladan questioned. ‘Saruman is defeated?’ Then, before Haldir could respond, Elladan followed with, ‘Did you say a _fall_? Did he trip down the stairs of his tower?’ Doubtless he intended the statement to be ironic. It seemed a little less so when Haldir replied.

‘Off the top of Orthanc, actually,’ the Marchwarden responded. ‘I believe the dwarf Bofur helped him on his way. So yes, Elladan, I would say he is most definitely defeated.’

Now Elladan smiled broadly.

‘Remind me to buy Bofur a drink when I see him,’ he said to Strider. Strider only shook his head.

‘King Thengel and Lord Celeborn intended to march directly to Osgiliath, my lord,’ Captain Odhrán told Ecthelion. ‘Lady Galadriel saw trouble coming there and they feared they might otherwise be too late. Clearly you had the same thought. I believe our army is only two days behind you, if you can wait for them.’

‘Most certainly, Captain,’ Ecthelion responded. ‘Your appearance is a blessing from the Valar. Undoubtedly it is a great deal better than the army of orcs we feared were behind us.’

‘A young lad saw the ents and took fright, Rial told us,’ Captain Odhrán answered, obviously not one to beat around the bush. ‘I cannot say I blame him. I nearly took fright myself when I first saw them. Still, they’re as deadly in battle as any fighters I’ve ever seen. They tore the dam Saruman had built at Isengard to pieces with their bare hands. Thengel-King was glad to fight alongside them.’

‘Ents?’ Denethor asked. ‘As in the tree-herders from legend? They are real?’

‘They are,’ Elladan assured him, ‘and now I feel much the fool for not having thought of such an explanation before. They would certainly seem like the great, twisted monsters which so scared Dith. They could turn the tide of this battle, Ecthelion.’

‘How many are there, Marchwarden?’ Ecthelion queried. ‘Having never seen an ent I have little idea what I should expect but if they can do so much damage even in small numbers then I imagine Elladan is correct.’

‘We have around fifty ents with us, for their numbers are far smaller than they once were. In addition, the elves of Lothlórien number around 1,000,’ Haldir explained. ‘Our friends from Rohan outnumber us, being just over 6,000 strong, but I hope we make up in skill what we lack in size.’

‘Elven understatement for you,’ Captain Odhrán answered sardonically. ‘The orcs at Isengard didn’t know what had hit them.’

‘That is, of course,’ Haldir acknowledged, ‘the general idea. My lady adds another hundred or so to our numbers herself, should she became annoyed enough. When orcs are involved she generally does.’

‘Then our chances have vastly improved,’ Strider stated, smiling wider than Merry had seen for many weeks. ‘6,000 cavalry will be a very welcome present for the orcs when they exit Osgiliath. Denethor, would you pass word to the captains that we will not be travelling today. They should ensure the men get some practice, but we should give the Osgiliath garrison more time to rest.’

Denethor, with a smile matching Strider’s, moved to obey. Merry saw Captain Odhrán look at Strider oddly, then Haldir leant over and began to speak to him quietly.

Merry felt a smile break out across his own face.

Yes, they were still outnumbered. Yes, he might still lose his life when the battle commenced, but even if they did…

At least they did not fight alone.

******


	43. Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas has a bone to pick on the way into Mordor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another update. I have some holiday time so you get this a little quicker than normal. Enjoy! 
> 
> Also, this is now officially longer than History, and we've a way to go yet. Apparently it is possible for me to get more long-winded. Good to know :)

Chapter Forty-Two: Behind

They had never expected travelling through Mordor to be easy. Gandalf had prepared them for what they would face even before they had left Lothlórien. No water to be found. Nothing edible to forage. The Nazgûl’s fortress hovering above them. And, by far the worst, Sauron’s never-sleeping eye surveying his lands.

The one thing Gandalf had not been able to prepare them for, however, was the trial of carrying the ring through such a place when one of their party was wounded.

Kíli was on his own feet now, following Frodo’s ministrations and Legolas’ further attempts at healing. Legolas had poured everything he had into his friend, desperate to keep him going, but he wished fervently that he was stronger. He only had so much to give and Kíli was still having to use every reserve of strength he had to keep moving. Knowing this Legolas had offered to carry him, but typical dwarven stubbornness had kicked in.

So Kíli walked and Thorin held the ring and stayed as far from his nephew as possible. The King was determined that the foul thing should have no further chance to hurt the youngest Durin, but Legolas knew Thorin was watching Kíli all the time. They all were, to the point that Kíli had joked about what he had to do to become the centre of attention for once.

Fíli had promptly told him that he’d spent his entire life as the centre of attention and the extra melodrama was completely unnecessary. While Legolas knew that such teasing was only force of habit at this point, and that Fíli was more worried about Kíli than all the rest of them put together, he still found the jokes reassuring.

There was little else to reassure them. The path they walked was so steep that they were now climbing more than walking and it was somehow darker than a moonless night. This place did not just lack light, it almost seemed to repel any that might otherwise leak through. The rocks bit into their hands and Legolas knew that his own were bleeding and could not imagine that Bilbo and Frodo were any better off.

As Fíli drew them to a halt so that they could eat and have a brief drink of water, having found a place where they could all just about perch on the rocks without falling, Legolas took a spare shirt and ripped it into strips, binding them over his hands to try and keep the wounds clean. They were almost in Mordor now and Valar knew nothing here was likely to be good for them. He saw Frodo do the same and then nudge Bilbo until he followed. Bilbo looked to Thorin, who tried for a smile.

‘Hands like boot leather,’ he told Bilbo in a murmur. ‘Comes of working in a forge for so long. We’ll be fine.’

‘Fíli might not be,’ Kíli whispered, though he was clearly trying to lighten the mood again. ‘Hasn’t seen a real forge for years.’

‘Sword calluses,’ was Fíli’s only reply. He was scanning their surroundings, as he did each time they stopped. Further ahead the path was almost vertical and the glances he occasionally flicked at Kíli made it clear what he was thinking. His brother was still weak, he might struggle to pull himself up, especially if the rocks caught at his wounds.

‘We do what we must,’ Kíli said quietly, solemnly, eyes fixed on Fíli after he caught one of these worried looks. ‘I’ll get there.’ Fíli was still uncertain, but only nodded.

‘You will do it more easily if you have help,’ Thorin added. He pulled the ‘pouch of evil’, as Frodo had so aptly named it, from his belt and passed it to Fíli. Then he reached into his pack and produced a coil of strong rope. When he began looping it around his waist Legolas finally realised what he intended.

‘No, Uncle,’ Kíli objected, eyes wide. ‘If I slip I’ll take you down with me like that!’

‘So do not slip,’ was Thorin’s reply. Kíli rolled his eyes and muttered a few more token protests, but it was clear that he did not have enough energy to argue, not when he was going to need all of it for the climb.

And he did. It took them the rest of the day, a long, draining slog that made Legolas wish fervently that he would never see a mountain again. Even Erebor could not endear him to mountains at this point. They rested frequently but the others never quite seemed to catch their breath and by the end of it none of them even bothered trying to talk, just ate, drank and then began to climb once more.

Legolas had never been so glad he was an elf and had never wished so much that he could pass some of the Valar’s grace to others.

Finally they reached the top and as one his companions slumped to the ground. Fíli tried to rise but Legolas crossed to him and pushed him back down. Perhaps they were not entirely safe here, they would not be anywhere in Mordor, but none of them could fight like this.

‘Go to sleep, mellon-nin,’ he commanded quietly. ‘I will take this watch.’ Fíli nodded, sense winning out, and they passed a quiet few hours resting. Bilbo woke before the others, ordering Legolas to take his own turn sleeping. Bilbo was grave after what had happened in the Morgul Vale, but appeared to have tapped into the well of determination that had led him into Smaug’s lair. He settled next to Frodo, legs crossed and sword resting across his knees, ready to defend them if he had to.

Legolas closed his eyes though he did not need to, trying to block out the reminders of where he was, and attempted to sleep.

***

The passage on their second day began more easily than the first. They had reached a tunnel which Fíli was sure would take them through to the other side of the mountain range, and here the floor only sloped slightly and in a few places. If any good could be drawn from the previous day’s exertions it was that anything else seemed positively pleasant in comparison. The hours of rest had left Fíli feeling better and even Kíli seemed less pale and drawn when he woke, though he was by no means healed.

Normally Fíli adored caves and underground tunnels. They were homely, even the ones outside Erebor reminded him of his kingdom and there was almost always something of interest to spot. A seam of metal, in some places, or a strange formation in the rock that made you wonder what had happened to make it look that way. Unfortunately this tunnel had very few things to recommend it and several things that worried Fíli a great deal.

Spider webs.

As soon as they’d seen the first one, far too big for any normal variety of spider, Legolas had begun to curse inventively, borrowing many dwarven phrases as he did so. No matter what an elf might try to tell you, theirs simply wasn’t a good language for cursing.

‘Legolas?’ Fíli asked carefully, though he was fairly sure he knew what the problem was.

‘Spawn of Ungoliant,’ Legolas hissed, eyes fixed on a web. ‘Somewhere in here something evil lives.’

‘Well, we knew that,’ Bilbo pointed out kindly. ‘There was never going to be anything good living this close to Sauron.’

‘Those _things_ tried to take over my home,’ Legolas told them, eyes cool and grim, reminding Fíli of the warrior they had first met after a spider attack.

‘Yes,’ Fíli acknowledged, ‘and I promise, my friend, at any other time we would happily join you in setting every spider we could find on fire. Right now, unfortunately, we have somewhere to be. Rather urgently.’

Legolas nodded abruptly and they kept walking, but he continued to throw vicious looks at the webs along the way and appeared to take particular pleasure in slashing his dagger through one when Frodo got caught in it.

Better that than trying to purge the tunnel single-handed. This way they would be more likely to make it to Mordor relatively unscathed. If you could call it that, considering they already had one wounded dwarf and the ring was still throwing occasional, painful fits of malice at them.

Sometimes you had to take success where you could find it.

***

What Fíli hadn’t counted on, regrettably, was a completely lack of self-preservation on the part of the giant spider.

If Fíli had known that there was a furious Prince of the Woodland Realm out for his blood he would have… alright, given that it was Legolas Fíli would probably have laughed hysterically and then been dumped in the Long Lake, which was what had happened the last time he’d played a practical joke on their elven friend. That was him though.

For some reason he’d just expected the spider to know better.

Perhaps it did, to some extent. When it attacked, as they were resting against a bit of wall which wasn’t covered in webs, the spider went straight for Kíli, likely having scented the blood from his wounds. It descended from the ceiling, far more quickly than Fíli would have imagined for something so big, and took them all by surprise.

Uncle reacted first, understanding by instinct what the creature intended to do and jumping to put himself between the spider and its prey. He succeeded in protecting Kíli, slashing at its head and forcing the spider to move back, but Fíli heard him give a grunt of pain.

Angry that Uncle, too, might be hurt now, and that he had not spotted their danger earlier and prevented it, Fíli lashed out from the left and caught one of thing’s many legs with one sword. It chittered angrily, rounding on him, just as Frodo did the same on the right side. Now the spider wasn’t sure which way to turn and Fíli realised that its size, though seriously worrying when you first saw the creature, could also be an advantage.

‘Strike everywhere you can!’ he called to the others. ‘Keep it off-balance.’

Bilbo and Frodo took the advice to heart. The spider was fast, but it was also trying to keep at least one of its truly disturbing eyes on all of them at once and so its reactions were slower. Uncle did not move, planting himself between Kíli and the monster and driving Orcrist at it whenever the spider tried to return to its first plan. As Fíli darted in to land another blow, dropping and rolling at the last second to avoid being caught by venomous fangs, he felt something fly over his head and heard a shriek of indignation from their enemy. When he came back to his feet, taking another swipe at the nearest leg, he saw that Kíli had pushed up to his knees and was taking aim again.

‘Spider pincushion, anyone?’ his brother shouted sarcastically.

‘Save your breath for firing, you idiot,’ Bilbo called back, sounding as if he was trying not to laugh. It might have been breathlessness, though. The hobbits moved a lot faster than Fíli and they were making good use of that speed. Frodo, having tired of slashing at the less sensitive parts of their enemy, ducked dangerously close to a stinger and hacked at it, then had to jump back sharply to avoid the venom which spurted out.

‘Do try not to _help_ the spider, Frodo,’ Uncle teased even in the midst of the chaos. His voice was strained and Fíli’s worry only increased. Uncle wasn’t even moving, he certainly wouldn’t be out of breath as Bilbo was.

‘It can’t aim the venom anymore!’ Frodo protested. ‘That still counts.’

All of the action, and the unnecessary commentary, had distracted Fíli enough that he only now began to wonder where Legolas had disappeared to. Obviously he would not have fled, but it was unlike him to be so far from the action. Taking a few steps back to get out of range, around the same time that the spider tried for Kíli again and Uncle once more sent it skidding back to try and avoid Orcrist’s bite, Fíli looked around rapidly to try and find Legolas.

He might have missed him entirely, had Legolas not taken that moment to make his move.

Somehow, he had managed to climb up the walls, finding footholds that would probably have made Fíli blanch if he’d looked at them. Then, as if that was not mad enough, Legolas had found one of the massive webs that littered the passage and cut at it so that he had a strip almost free, only attached to the roof of the cave.

Then, of course, because he was Legolas and had clearly spent far too many years aspiring to be Glorfindel, he swung across the cave, flipped in mid-air and landed square on the spider’s back, just behind its head.

‘Show-off!’ Kíli shouted, and Fíli did not need to see him to know the manic light that would be in his brother’s eyes.

Valar help them all if Kíli tried to imitate that move at some point.

Legolas simply ignored Kíli for now, too focused on their enemy to pay much attention. Drawing the twin daggers from his back, he raised both high and plunged them down into two of the spider’s eyes. Blood gushed forth and the spider let out its highest-pitched shriek yet, but Fíli feared that would not be enough. A few hurried looks had shown that the spider was missing a number of eyes and bore many scars, but it had clearly emerged from all of those battles victorious.

You had to give Legolas credit for determination, though. He drew the daggers back and targeted another pair of eyes, then another, even as the spider darted one way and another, desperately trying to get this menace off its back. Knowing that their friend could not stay up there forever Fíli rushed forward to help at the same moment that Frodo did so and they both stabbed at the spider’s now unprotected belly. Bilbo, with a steely look in his eyes, sized up one damaged leg, drew Sting back and whipped it forward with all of his might.

For a moment the creature did not react and Fíli almost wondered if he had mistaken what he’d seen. Then it lurched, if only slightly, and Fíli knew that Bilbo had, in fact, severed the monster’s leg. Unfortunately it had seven more helping it stay upright.

Legolas decided, at that moment, that he’d done enough damage where he was. Flipping forward once more he jumped onto another of the thing’s legs, sliding to the floor. He moved around its back, away from what eyes the thing had left, and Fíli was forced to ignore his curiosity in order to save his skin. With its back now free, the spider had apparently decided that the motionless attacker would be the best target.

Which would teach Fíli to mind his own business in battle.

Thankfully a half-blind spider’s aim isn’t as good as it could be. As the spider tried to bite him it missed and clamped its fangs onto thin air, while Fíli ran in the other direction and took a swipe at yet another of its legs.

Whoever had decided that spiders should have eight legs had a very twisted sense of humour. Or possibly none at all. People with senses of humour didn’t generally feel the need to create freakish monsters.

His right-hand sword bit into the spider’s leg but failed to sever it, and Fíli supressed a childish irritation. He’d forged these swords himself, they should have been a match for Sting, at least, if not for Orcrist. He drew back his left hand and slashed again, and this time dwarven steel served him well, leaving the creature with only six legs.

Taking it down leg by leg was going to be a complete pain in the arse, but Fíli resigned himself to the thought. At least then it wouldn’t be able to chase them.

Legolas clearly did not have that much patience. He appeared seemingly from nowhere, skidding under the spider on both knees, then spinning in place and stabbing upward. His blades struck deeply and the spider shrieked again, but Fíli knew within seconds that it had not been enough.

That was when he heard Uncle shout.

‘Legolas!’

Legolas turned immediately, hand outstretched as if he had read Uncle’s mind, though if asked he would no doubt say something about feeling the movement of the air. Orcrist’s hilt smacked into his palm and Fíli made a mental note to congratulate Uncle on the throw later. Legolas smiled, looked up and then slammed Orcrist upwards with all of his strength, before he lunged away of the stream of poison it emitted.

Then he did it again.

And again.

And again.

Perhaps Fíli didn’t want to annoy him after all.

‘You can stop now, Legolas,’ Kíli called, though he sounded rather the worse for wear and more worried than he probably intended. ‘I’m fairly sure it’s dead.’

Fíli agreed. The spider had slumped at the first blow, gurgled at the second, had nearly crushed Legolas beneath it after the third and had made no noise at all when the elf leapt out of its way and then aimed the fourth blow just behind its jaw.

If it had survived all of that then Fíli was almost tempted to say that the creature deserved to win their fight.

‘That,’ Legolas said coldly, surveying the fallen creature with true disgust, ‘is for 150 years of your _filth_ overtaking my home.’

Fíli and Uncle exchanged concerned looks. They could do without Legolas losing his typical composure, considering where they were. Bilbo, perhaps with a similar thought, reached out to take Legolas’ arm and guided him to sit near Kíli and Uncle.

‘Come,’ he said quietly, ‘it is done now.’

Legolas took a deep breath, blinked, then looked at them somewhat sheepishly.

‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly. Uncle shook his head.

‘Do not be,’ he replied. ‘If I had not been quite so worried about Bilbo I would likely have stabbed Smaug a few more times just for good measure.’

Legolas smiled, then looked at Uncle more closely, his expression turning worried.

‘Thorin, are you well?’ he asked anxiously. Fíli looked over at Uncle sharply and then used some of the curses Legolas had put to such good effect earlier.

‘Thorin?’ Bilbo said immediately. When Uncle did not instantly answer Bilbo reached out and touched his skin.

‘Oh Valar, not you as well,’ he mumbled. Fíli agreed wholeheartedly. Uncle was sweating, shivering though one touch of his skin made it clear he was burning with fever, and his eyes were beginning to look slightly glassy.

‘The venom,’ Fíli snarled. ‘It caught you.’

‘Only a little,’ Uncle replied. Fíli had to admit he sounded better than he looked. ‘I will be fine.’

‘Now where have we heard that one before?’ Bilbo retorted.

‘Bilbo, try not to fret,’ Uncle told him. ‘All of you, in fact,’ and now he looked at Fíli as well. ‘I am a little feverish but I have felt worse with fever from a sword wound. The fangs grazed me at best. Come morning I will doubtless be recovered.’

Frodo began to ferret through their packs with a practiced air, quickly assembling supplies and releasing a noise of triumph as he retrieved the tiny bottle of spirits that Kíli had snuck into his own pack when they left Lothlórien. It had already done duty cleaning Kíli’s wound, but they had just enough left for Uncle’s.

Treatment given, Fíli was about to suggest that they rest here for the night, then looked at the spider corpse and thought better of it.

‘A bit further,’ he said instead, ‘and then we’ll stop. Hopefully that thing was keeping the tunnels clear of anything else we’d need to worry about.’

***

Come morning Uncle did look better, though he was still feverish. Kíli, too, was pale and the effort he had expended during the battle (though when Fíli said it he grumbled that he had only fired three arrows) had clearly cost him. Even so he pushed to his feet before they could suggest remaining any longer and stubbornly began walking, muttering something Fíli didn’t catch. He listed to one side, palm against the wall, and Fíli seriously considered insisting that they rest another day.

Then Frodo let out a small, involuntary cry of pain which he refused to explain. They all knew he was wearing the ring that day, though. It was not hard to draw conclusions.

When Fíli met Kíli’s eyes the look in them said, ‘Well?’ as clearly as if Kíli had spoken. Fíli swallowed, then nodded, and they moved on.

There was little more of the tunnels left to travel. Soon they were through and facing another open path, though one with steep cliffs running on either side of it, which seemed to have been carved out by the feet of those who had walked this way over years and years. It rose gently, as the tunnel had, and made for easy enough walking, for which Fíli was thankful. A flight of steps led them further on and then, a few hours later, they had reached the summit. The only way now was down.

Below lay Mordor, bleak and unrelentingly black, a sense of evil lurking that even the Morgul Vale could not match. From where they stood Fíli could see the tower of Barad-dúr and his skin began to crawl. Here the menace was almost overwhelming, though the eye did not turn their way. The red fire atop the tower was the brightest illumination for miles and it dominated the landscape as Sauron had no doubt intended. Its only true rival was Mount Doom, their destination, belching black smoke into the air and glowing with its own fiery light. Even from a great distance the sights were overwhelming. To know that you had to cross that expanse, that you had approach such evil…. Fíli could think of no words to describe the feeling that came over him, not despair but something that was akin to despair.

The others must have felt it too. They said nothing, only stared, motionless, as Fíli did.

Had it not been for Bilbo taking the first step they might never have moved at all.

They stopped for the night about a quarter of the way down the path. Perhaps they should have moved more quickly, given the urgency of their task and the distance involved, but Legolas had seen lights flickering at the bottom of the mountains. Groups of orcs moving about Mordor on whatever tasks they had been assigned, presumably not yet despatched to fight at Osgiliath and not yet drawn north either. Clearly the armies had not yet reached the Morannon and so there was no harm in a slight delay. Uncle slept first, still fighting off the venom, and Bilbo, Frodo and Legolas soon followed.

Then it was only Fíli and Kíli. It felt natural to Fíli, who couldn’t remember a time when his younger brother had not been trailing after him, or running off ahead and calling for Fíli to follow.

They sat in silence for a while, watching Frodo and Bilbo sleep fitfully. Legolas lay a short distance away, still as death, it seemed, if you weren’t familiar with the elven ability to rest with their eyes open without moving a muscle. Uncle also seemed peaceful enough, save for the frown that creased his brow and the way one hand rested on his sword hilt, the other reaching towards Frodo.

Fíli was worried about all of them, but worry seemed to be instinctive now. He’d held this anxious feeling since Rohan and even Uncle’s arrival had not entirely shaken it loose.

‘We’re going to die doing this, aren’t we?’ Kíli asked quietly, taking Fíli entirely by surprise. He tilted his head quickly to meet Kíli’s gaze and saw that his brother’s eyes were clear and his face, though drawn with pain, was surprisingly resigned. ‘Look down there, Fíli,’ he added in a whisper. ‘Look at how far we have to go. The mountain is miles away yet and we couldn’t carry enough food to see us all that way. Even if we do throw the ring in, it’s so far to get back again.’

Fíli looked, as he had earlier, and found that he could not lie to Kíli. His brother wasn’t stupid. He’d hear the falsehood no matter how well Fíli told it.

‘Yes,’ he said instead, carefully, ‘I think we are.’ Normally Kíli was always so determined and unwilling to believe they might fail. Fíli wasn’t quite sure how he’d react to having his conclusions confirmed.

‘I knew that,’ Kíli told him with a weak parody of a smile. ‘I just… it seemed like it was time to say it.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’ Fíli asked hesitantly.

‘We’re Princes of Erebor,’ Kíli said softly. ‘We reclaimed the dragon-conquered kingdom. We’re not supposed to admit defeat.’

‘Oh Kí,’ Fíli sighed, tugging his brother closer to his side and leaning his head sideways so his cheek rested on Kíli’s ever-messy hair. They sat in silence for long minutes after that, maybe even half an hour, before Fíli got up the courage to speak again.

‘Kí?’ he asked softly, half-thinking Kíli was asleep.

‘Yes?’ Kíli asked in return, though he did not move his head.

‘You’ll find me, won’t you?’ Fíli continued, no longer able to pretend this hadn’t been gnawing away at him for days, ever since Kíli was first hurt and Fíli had felt a bewildering dread at the thought his brother might die even before they reached the end of their quest. That Kíli might leave him. ‘Wherever we go after this?’

‘I’ll always find you,’ Kíli promised matter-of-factly, as if there was no other option. Fíli was comforted, even though he was well aware it was a promise Kíli couldn’t really make.

‘Good,’ was all he said in response. Later, only a short while before the sun began to rise, they fell asleep.

***

Rising the next morning was tough. Kíli really shouldn’t have stayed awake so long the night before, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. Now the idea seemed laughable. He felt as if he could sleep for weeks and still be tired.

He pushed himself to his feet anyway, glad to see that Uncle looked a little better again. Perhaps it was odd to be glad of such a thing, considering the bleak conclusions he had reached as they’d dragged themselves into Mordor. Then again, perhaps not. Even if they did not survive this, it didn’t mean he wanted Uncle to be in pain.

The journey down was just as monotonous, and irritatingly as difficult, as the climb up. Whoever had said going down was easier than coming up hadn’t spent hours trying not to slide a few hundred feet down an unstable cliff path. Kíli had lost his footing once already, saved by Fíli’s quick reaction, and Bilbo was walking as close to Uncle as possible, watching where he put his feet so that he could literally follow in Thorin’s footsteps. The loose shale was treacherous, but Uncle had a talent for avoiding the worst of it.

Though they must have walked for many hours there was no place for them to camp that night… if night it was. Kíli was very confused by the days and nights in Mordor, or rather the lack of them, though he never had this problem in Erebor. Either way there was no room for them to lay down and, as dwarves and hobbits had never mastered the art of sleeping standing up, they continued instead.

Perhaps it was tiredness that prevented them noticing the sounds behind them earlier. Perhaps it was simply that they had not expected anyone else to take this particular path, the secret stair that Gandalf had told them was their best chance of avoiding detection. Kíli would confess that _he_ certainly hadn’t expected to find orcs thundering down towards them.

But there they were, suddenly. A party of twenty or more, stamping their way down the path in what passed for quiet when you were an orc. Fíli was at the rear, close enough to Kíli that his startled jump had Kíli turning even before he’d registered anything himself. A hail of scree skittered down the path at the same moment and Kíli looked up, feeling as if the world was moving only half as quickly as it normally did. At first the figures were hard to see, as far away as they were, but Kíli’s eyes were meant for the dark and they picked out the shapes against the cliff soon enough.

‘Mahal’s balls,’ he heard Fíli whisper. ‘How did they get so close?’

Kíli did not answer. He had no more idea than Fíli. He was, however, quickly coming to a realisation.

‘They’ll be on us too soon,’ he breathed into Fíli’s ear, leaning over his brother’s shoulder. ‘We can’t run down here but they must know the path better. They’re moving quickly.’

‘That or their leader doesn’t care who falls as long as it isn’t him,’ Fíli replied. Kíli thought that was unlikely. If their leader was at the front then he stood every chance of being knocked down by anyone who fell from behind him.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said instead of voicing this thought. As quickly as the realisation had come, so now came his plan for how to deal with it. ‘You need to go. Quickly.’

Even as he spoke Kíli reached back, unhooking his bow and drawing his first arrow.

The plan was simple really, as all the best plans were.

Kíli was the slowest, which was why he and Fíli were at the back. Even as they had spoken the others had pulled ahead and, while they couldn’t run, they could certainly move faster if he wasn’t with them.

He was injured, which was why he was the slowest, and which also meant that he was going to be less use to them as they went on. The wound didn’t feel life-threatening, but it was still draining him of strength and it was unlikely to improve much as they ran out of food and water.

And, of course, the key thing: Kíli was an archer.

He could stop here, in this narrow rut of a path, and could effectively block the way. The orcs couldn’t climb out to get around him, the walls were too high. They also couldn’t reach him as easily if he was firing at them. They’d risk losing a good few before they got close enough to attack him and it was possible that their leader would stop out of range for a little while to decide on a plan, which would slow them down.

It would give Fíli and the others enough time to escape.

Or at least give them a bit more of a headstart.

Kíli reached out and grabbed Fíli’s arm while his brother was still in shock, doing a complicated little dance in the tight space that left Fíli behind him. Then he gave his brother a shove to try and get him moving.

Fíli stayed still, simply gazing at him in disbelief.

‘ _Fíli_!’ he hissed irritably. ‘You need to _go_.’

‘No,’ Fíli whispered, horrified, as he realised that Kíli was truly serious. ‘No, not without you.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Kíli shot back. ‘You know it makes sense. I can bottleneck the path.’

‘You’ll die,’ Fíli said, horror still the prevalent emotion. ‘Kí, you’ll…’

‘We said it last night, Fí,’ Kíli said sadly, letting the urgency drop for a moment. ‘We’re all going to die doing this. Now or later, makes no difference really.’

Fíli obviously wanted to argue, opened his mouth to do so, but they were interrupted by two noises in quick succession. The first was more shale falling down the slope.

The second was Legolas calling Fíli’s name. When they looked, they saw Legolas forcing his way back up the path, apparently realising that something must be wrong.

‘The ring has to go into that mountain, Fíli,’ Kíli said gently. ‘You know it does. They need you to help them get it there. Please, go.’

For another moment, which felt long though no doubt it was far shorter than they realised, Fíli stared at him helplessly.

Then he gasped slightly, tears escaping from each eye, and grabbed the back of Kíli’s neck. He pulled their foreheads together, as he had in every farewell since they were very young.

‘Love you,’ he whispered desperately. ‘Find me.’

‘Always,’ Kíli promised, not allowing himself any tears. He wouldn’t make this harder for Fíli.

Nor could he afford to have his vision blurred. He was going to need all the accuracy he could muster.

Behind him, Fíli skidded down the slope and then urged Legolas back. What he said or did Kíli didn’t know.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t want his last glimpse of his family to be their retreating backs.

Instead he nocked his arrow and, as their enemies neared, he fired.

The first orc fell.

******

 


	44. Aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies take the field outside Osgiliath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final of my holiday chapters. I wanted to get one more out before I have to go back to work tomorrow and my more erratic posting schedule resumes :) I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Anyone who has got this far in Lessons Well Learnt knows how I hate battle scenes. This one was exhausting to write and took a lot of research, so please take account of that as you're reading. If I've made a heinous mistake it will not be because I didn't try to check my facts, it's just that I have never fought in a battle and so will inevitably get things wrong :D

Chapter Forty-Three: Aim

For two days the army of Gondor waited on the Pelennor Fields for their allies from Lothlórien and Rohan. They rested, trained, ate, drank and, at length, grew restless. The orcs had taken Osgiliath, had pushed their own forces out of the fortress and back from the river. The garrison from Osgiliath chafed at the loss of their position, even as they were thankful not to have been destroyed by the orcs’ far greater force. Their tension communicated itself to the others, particularly the younger and less experienced soldiers. Aragorn spent much of his time walking the camp, taking the opportunity to watch the training and get to know his captains, but also to reassure those he could. Calm, he had learned some years ago, could spread just as panic did in the right circumstances.

Ecthelion, Denethor and Elladan all did the same. Odhran and Haldir had been lent new horses and had travelled back to meet their Lords and make them aware of the position. It was important, Aragorn knew, that news of the approaching help passed through his ranks. He hoped it would soothe the tension and the nerves that could do much damage before the battle even began.

It had not occurred to Aragorn, though it likely should have done, that Merry and Pippin had taken a similar responsibility onto their own shoulders. Of course, being Merry and Pippin, they were doing so in their own… unique fashion.

As noon passed on their second day of waiting Aragorn’s travels brought him to a group of the newest recruits, led by one of Gondor’s most experienced captains, Junan. The man had been doing an admirable job of easing the minds of his company, but he had a reputation for being dour, eminently practical and rather humourless. Aragorn’s astonishment at seeing the man laughing was quickly hidden but Junan, spotting his approach, caught it even so.

‘I do not know where you got them from,’ he told Aragorn with a shake of his head, ‘but Valar knows they have a way about them.’

Following the Captain’s gaze, Aragorn saw Merry and Pippin in full re-enactment of their battle against the two Nazgûl. Their attempt to emulate Elladan’s leap up into the trees was somewhat hampered by the complete lack of any trees in the vicinity, but they made a valiant try. The men watching were caught between fascination and hysterical laughter, which Aragorn thought was a perfectly normal response to his hobbits, mad as they were.

By now Pippin had taken centre stage and was approaching the final, more triumphant moments of the battle, though the lack of actors was proving more restrictive than he had probably realised when he started out. With a small smile Aragorn moved forward to join them.

‘So our friend knocked Merry out of the way,’ Pippin informed his audience grandly, ‘and the Nazgûl sent him flying right into a tree.’ A number of the men winced and Aragorn joined them. ‘Strid… Aragorn caught the Nazgûl’s next blow and drove it back a way so that it couldn’t hurt Merry. Merry was really annoyed, though, because the Nazgûl had hurt our friend. So he got up and ran forward and then…’ Pippin began to run forward himself, thankfully _without_ a blade in his hand, aiming himself in Merry’s direction. Then Aragorn took another step or two forward and bent his leg as he had in the clearing, catching Pippin’s attention. Pippin caught sight of him, smiled widely and veered sideways to aim instead for Aragorn. His jump was, if anything, higher than Merry’s had been. The young hobbit’s arm shot forward in a good imitation of a sword stab and then he dropped to the floor, landing on his feet, ‘he stabbed the Nazgûl in the face, just like that!’ Pippin finished, turning to bow at the applause from his audience. From his position off to one side Merry smiled shyly and gave his own small bow when a number of the gathered men applauded him directly.

‘You see,’ Pippin said confidently as the applause died down, ‘we can do it so you should have no problems at all. These are just orcs, after all.’

Looking around Aragorn saw a number of heads nod, a few sets of shoulders easing out of an instinctive hunch.

‘Though if you could contrive not to set anything on fire, as this one did,’ Aragorn added, tapping Pippin on the top of the head, ‘I believe the Steward would be grateful. If you do set anything on fire, I would suggest shouting for Pippin. Luckily he is as good at putting the fires out as he is at starting them.’

‘It worked,’ Pippin informed his audience, after sticking his tongue out at Aragorn. ‘Elladan killed the other Nazgûl while it was distracted by being on fire. I hadn’t got that far yet, but that was how it ended.’

‘Will there be Nazgûl in this battle, my lord?’ one of the younger soldiers asked Aragorn quietly. He looked understandably nervous but determined as well.

‘There may well be,’ Aragorn responded with all the calm he could muster. They needed the truth, but terror was the Nazgûl’s best weapon. The more of it Aragorn could stamp out the better. ‘If there are, they will frightening to behold and hard to destroy. They use a call that chills the blood and is painful to the ear. The most important thing to remember, though, is what Merry and Pippin have just demonstrated. They can be killed. Three of them have fallen to that blow inside their helmets. If you must face them then try for that. In all likelihood, however, they will aim for Lord Elladan or myself. They will feel they have a score to settle.’

‘Or for the hobbits,’ the lad answered. Aragorn inclined his head in agreement. A few of the men looked at Merry and Pippin with protective expressions and Aragorn resisted laughter. ‘Merry and Pippin will stay with my party,’ he said in lieu of forbidding the men to break formation to guard his young charges. ‘I would not care to lose their expertise in Nazgûl-slaying if we are to be attacked.’

Merry caught Aragorn’s eye and rolled his eyes, even as Pippin gave a wide grin. Merry was onto him, then. No matter, the hobbits would stay close anyway. They were a great deal more sensible than their behaviour sometimes suggested.

***

Some hours later, not long before nightfall, their allies arrived. At the head were the Elves of Lothlórien, their brightly coloured banners streaming out behind them. Their soldiers, mostly blonde-haired and clad in deep blue cloaks, were a sight to give any orc a nightmare. Aragorn heard murmuring break out amongst his own people, who had gathered at the rear of their camp to greet the new arrivals. A susurrating whisper of awe spread through their ranks and Aragorn hoped that the sight had reassured his soldiers.

Behind the elves came the Rohirrim, riding tightly-packed and so well in step with one another that it almost felt like a trick of the eye. They were six times the size of the elven army, almost six times the size of the army of Gondor, for that matter, yet their formation held strong even as they slowed to a stop. A forest of spears sprang up from their ranks and Aragorn imagined those spears aimed at the orcs, and smiled.

Finally, at the rear, were the Ents of Fangorn Forest. Aragorn suspected that, following the misunderstanding of a few days before and the consequent panic in Gondor, the ents had been asked to march at the back so that they did not frighten the Gondorian forces half to death. What the Men of Gondor thought of the tree-herders Aragorn could not easily tell. Eyes and mouths were wide, but whether with awe or with horror was anybody’s guess. No one took off running, however, so Aragorn would not worry for the moment.

Leading the way were the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Lord Celeborn looked as cool and calm as a mountain lake in winter, as always, whilst Lady Galadriel appeared limned in pure white light. Gandalf also rode with them, though he was now garbed in a white as bright as the light surrounding Lady Galadriel. Between them they rather outshone King Thengel, also at the head of the army, but he did not seem much bothered by it.

They had also, for a very brief moment, distracted Aragorn from the sight of a familiar and most-beloved face. When he caught sight of Arwen, riding on her Grandmother’s right, Aragorn blinked several times to try and clear the mirage from his eyes. When it remained anyway, he realised that this was, in fact, real.

‘Try to stop gaping, Estel,’ Elladan whispered. ‘Your people are watching you!’

‘His people are also gaping,’ Denethor hissed from the other side. ‘Lady Galadriel is astonishing enough but… who in the Valar’s name is _that_?’

‘Someone you already know,’ Elladan answered slyly. ‘Or know of, at least. Behold your future Queen, Denethor. Arwen Undomiel, Evenstar of our people.’

By this time the approaching forces had halted and were dismounting, so Aragorn shook the shock from his limbs and moved to join Ecthelion, who was walking towards his fellow rulers with admirable poise. Pippin and Merry were close at Aragorn’s heels, he knew, almost vibrating with the desire to run to Arwen though they held themselves in check. Elladan and Denethor also followed, though the remainder of Gondor’s representatives remained where they were, apparently at a signal from Ecthelion.

‘Lord Ecthelion,’ Lady Galadriel said when they were close enough to hear one another easily, ‘we are most relieved to find that we are not late for the battle. I had feared we might not arrive in time. I am also much relieved to know that you withdrew your forces from Osgiliath. The outcome would have been unfortunate, had you decided otherwise.’

Ecthelion looked slightly startled at this pronouncement and Elladan stepped forward to kiss his grandmother’s cheek.

‘They are not used to your particular brand of foresight, Grandmother,’ he reminded her with great affection. ‘Perhaps save the predictions and premonitions for a little later.’

‘Of course,’ Galadriel responded after the briefest pause, smiling at Ecthelion with a hint of apology. Ecthelion, experienced as he was, recovered quickly.

‘As I told your Marchwarden, my lady, and your Captain, King Thengel, we are more than pleased to see you. To know that we will not face this battle alone is a great relief.’

‘As it was to me when I faced Saruman,’ King Thengel responded. Then, more quietly, ‘Perhaps we have become too distant since I left Gondor, Ecthelion. Had you lit the beacons we would have come. It did not occur to me that you would think you had to fight alone.’

‘I ought to have done so,’ Ecthelion said equally quietly, ‘but Aragorn told me that you went to war against Saruman. I was not sure you would be able to march.’ He finished, most sincerely, ‘It is good to see you again, Thengel.’

‘And you,’ Thengel replied. ‘I should introduce my eldest son, Théoden, who rides with me.’ He gestured Theoden forward and the lad exchanged greetings with Ecthelion.

Aragorn had waited impatiently, eyes locked with Arwen’s and cheered beyond measure by the merriment he beheld. His love was clearly glad to see him and any uncertainty which had tried to creep into his heart since he left Lothlórien faded almost instantly. Now he took three paces towards her, opened his arms and laughed when she flung her own around his neck, allowing him to lift her feet off the ground.

‘It does my soul so much good to see you,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Love, I am so very glad you are here.’

‘I wish always to be with you,’ Arwen answered, ‘though, despite Grandfather’s suspicions, I did _not_ come all this way simply to see you. I think he expected you to try and send me away, in truth. He gave in remarkably easily when I told him I was coming.’

‘I think,’ Aragorn stated, resting his forehead against her own so that he could meet her eyes again, ‘that your Grandfather is a wise man who knows that an army desperately needs its healers. Also, that he lost his daughter to Valinor far earlier than expected and so sometimes gives in to the instinct to protect _her_ daughter even when logic argues otherwise, but overcomes it soon enough.’

‘Perhaps,’ Arwen said thoughtfully. ‘I will speak with him again this evening, and try to reassure him a little more. It is easy to forget, sometimes, what she was to him and to Grandmother. We are so used to thinking of what she was to us.’ After a second she pushed the thought aside and looked at him with concern. ‘Are you well, Estel? I try not to worry, but your task was so dangerous I am afraid the feeling came rather naturally.’

Aragorn gave a small nod, kissing her brow.

‘I am well enough,’ he said softly. ‘Better now you are here. Finding myself in this country was somewhat alarming, and for a while I was… not the man I wish to be for you. Or for myself. It passed, though. I have a very, very good Steward, love. I will have another very good steward when Ecthelion passes. I am lucky indeed.’

‘We all falter,’ Arwen reassured him, and it unknotted his insides as only Arwen’s words ever did. ‘What matters is what you do when you steady yourself again. I would say you are doing more than well.’

‘Says she who only arrived some minutes ago,’ Aragorn teased, kissing Arwen on the lips this time. He was certain that the nip he received was her revenge, but he accepted it gladly. He truly could not describe how joyful he was to be with her again.

A minute later Aragorn reluctantly pulled away, aware that he was probably making a spectacle of himself. When he looked up he saw Ecthelion greeting Treebeard, who had come to the front of the army alone and was standing well back so that the Steward could speak to him easily without craning his neck. Aragorn moved in that direction, knowing that he had duties which ought to have come before greeting his betrothed, though he kept Arwen’s hand in his as he did so. She laughed lightly, willing enough to follow him for now.

Ecthelion smiled indulgently as Aragorn crossed the small space to stand beside him once more. The hobbits, clearly deciding that if Aragorn could break protocol they could as well, shot forward and wrapped their arms around Arwen, who did her best to hug them back without letting go of Aragorn’s hand. Her brother she gave a bright smile, though she did not try to disentangle herself from Merry and Pippin to greet him.

Aragorn felt the moment she realised what, or rather who, was missing. Straightening as Merry and Pippin released her, Arwen looked around them one last time, then glanced up at Aragorn with dawning grief.

‘Sméagol,’ she whispered, almost soundlessly. Aragorn shook his head, then used his hold on her hand to tug her closer. Arwen did not resist, resting her head against his shoulder for a moment.

‘Oh Estel, I am so sorry,’ she said quietly. Then she did release his hand, but only to reach for Merry and Pippin once more. They came to her easily and she knelt to speak quietly to them, one elegant hand wiping away a few stray tears from their faces.

Sensing the curious looks from the others, Aragorn turned to them and gave a sad smile.

‘The companion we lost was dear to Arwen, as well as to the hobbits,’ he told them. They all nodded, Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn with great understanding. Gandalf’s face was filled with sadness and a deep pity, and when their eyes met Aragorn knew that the wizard understood exactly how he felt at having lost their companion.

‘Let us get a camp set for the night,’ King Thengel suggested carefully, mindful of the change of atmosphere. ‘My men will be happy to dismount, I am sure. If you all agree, I would say we gather in an hour. We can eat together and speak of what needs doing in the morning.’

As soon as agreement had been reached Lady Galadriel moved to join Arwen and the hobbits. Lord Celeborn gave an order to Haldir, then gestured for Elladan to follow him. He did the same to Aragorn, much to his surprise, before moving so that they were a little distant from any listening ears. Lord Celeborn then laid his cloak upon the floor and sat, inviting Elladan and Aragorn to do the same.

‘It is never easy to lose a companion,’ he said, compassion filling his voice. ‘Especially one you believe you should have been protecting. Tell me what happened.’

Aragorn, who had missed his foster-father and mentors a great deal since the Fellowship had set out, felt a new wave of grief wash over him. This time, however, he did not have to hold it in.

***

Sigrid had not realised how attached she was to the other members of the Fellowship, those who were not already family to her, until she saw them alive and well and felt how glad she was that they had survived. Though she had not been at all attached to the former ring-bearer, Sméagol, she also felt some grief at his death. Not as the hobbits clearly did, but a twinge of sadness for a fellow warrior gone to his end. For though the Sméagol who had attacked Bilbo and earned her enmity might have been no true warrior, anyone who gave their life so bravely deserved the title.

‘I’m sorry, lads,’ Bofur had spoken for all of them when Arwen and Galadriel had brought the hobbits to their fire. Pippin’s eyes were red and swollen, tear tracks on his cheeks, and Merry’s face showed signs of a quick scrubbing meant to remove such traces. They were so young, Sigrid thought, remembering how Frodo had aged between Lothlórien and her arrival at Edoras. Now they would never be so again, in their hearts. They had learned the cost of war.

Necessary, but always hard to bear.

‘Are you really?’ Merry had asked lowly, meeting Bofur’s eyes dead on. Sigrid’s betrothed had not wavered, his expression losing none of its solemn respect.

‘Aye,’ he’d answered, ‘I am. I had not thought to be. He tried to hurt one of my dearest friends and dwarves don’t forget such things easily. If at all. But the way he died, what he did to try and protect you. That I can respect. Even Thorin will recognise that he died with honour, whatever faults he had.’

‘He’d like knowing that,’ Pippin said then, thoughtfully. ‘I think he’d started to understand why he’d earned suspicion and anger, especially from Bilbo’s friends, but he didn’t like it. Not when he was himself.’

‘There’ll be a place for him in our histories,’ Bofur had assured both the hobbits. ‘Fíli and Kíli will see to that. They were always ones to admire a hero, especially those who gave their life for others.’

As Elladan and Aragorn joined them, followed by Lord Celeborn, Sigrid debated whether to give the elf the satisfaction of knowing she had worried for him. Then she chided herself for childishness. Elladan had done her no harm, other than getting on her nerves with his sense of humour. Valar knew she should be used to that.

She rose to her feet and crossed to meet them as they arrived, clasping Aragorn’s arm in greeting. She did the same with Elladan, who accorded her a dramatic bow and a kiss to her hand, all with the purpose of annoying her. Sigrid refused to give him the satisfaction of the response he clearly expected. Instead she did the same to him, causing Aragorn to choke on a laugh.

‘You’re being a little free with the kisses there, love,’ Bofur called playfully. Seeing smiles begin to show on the hobbits’ faces, Sigrid decided to play along. Giving Bofur a sly look and a wink, she walked around the campfire and kissed each member of the Fellowship in turn, mostly on the cheek. Bofur grumbled in mock irritation and Pippin giggled in earnest as Sigrid reached him and kissed the end of his nose affectionately.

‘I begin to feel left out,’ Lord Celeborn commented idly, though Sigrid saw his eyes flick to the hobbits as well.

‘That we cannot have,’ Arwen announced. She and Lady Galadriel rose, moved to stand on either side of him, and each kissed one cheek.

It was at that moment that Gondor’s Steward and his son arrived with King Thengel, Gandalf and Treebeard, the ent clearly making an effort to avoid standing on anything that could be easily squashed. With their appearance the frivolity came to an end as the group were served dinner and turned their minds to serious matters.

‘Any news from Osgiliath?’ Bofur asked, beginning the conversation. ‘All we know is that the orcs were gathering in large numbers. Haldir said 25,000 strong?’ He looked to Aragorn for confirmation and received a nod.

‘So the men from Osgiliath said,’ the Ranger confirmed. ‘With your arrival they outnumber us about three to one.’

‘Far better odds than we expected,’ Denethor finished. ‘If not as good as we would like. Our plan is to draw them past the river’s edge, through Osgiliath and out onto the plains.’

‘And after that?’ Gandalf asked. When Denethor looked uncertain Lord Celeborn drew his attention and smiled reassuringly.

‘You know the land best, Lord Denethor. Do not feel you must defer to us in this matter.’ Thengel nodded his agreement, so Denethor continued.

It was a well thought out plan, Sigrid thought. Denethor was clearly Captain-General of Gondor through skill as well as birth, and the strategy he laid out was a solid one. Aragorn, it seemed, had provided some information on the skills of their elven allies and Lord Celeborn and King Thengel were able to provide one or two further suggestions. Soon they had decided on a stratagem.

Now they just had to hope that it worked.

***

There was nothing quite like the moments of waiting before the commencement of battle, Elladan reflected. Time seemed infinite as you surveyed your enemy and considered how he would attack, and yet the beat of your heart made it clear that seconds were passing with great swiftness.

Elladan had never yet met anyone whose heart did not speed up before battle, even amongst the most experienced elves of his acquaintance.

Glorfindel claimed it simply would not be as much fun otherwise.

The morning after the arrival of their reinforcements the armies had marched a further 15 miles, leaving them only five miles from the broken down fortress at Osgiliath. No orcs had been sighted outside the fortress, but Haldir had disappeared with a group of scouts that evening and had confirmed that a large number of orcs had crossed the river and entered the fort. Some remained on the opposite bank, but they were all camped on the road leading down from Minas Morgul, intending to cross directly to Osgiliath once space had been cleared.

So convenient of them not to spread out.

Gondor and her allies had set up camp, under strict orders not to approach Osgiliath or even show any sign of interest in the ancient city. Aragorn and his fellow leaders were determined to lure the orcs out, having no desire for a running battle in between Osgiliath’s crumbled walls.

It had taken another day for the orcs to appear on the Pelennor. Elladan assumed they had been waiting for Gondor’s army to attack Osgiliath, certain that the Men would wish to reclaim the position. Then no attack had come, and someone in power had had to do some thinking.

Sure to be a painful task, considering that they were orcs.

Now it seemed that the decision had been made. The front ranks of Mordor’s army had begun to appear around noon, black Uruk-hai, taller than their fellows and unconcerned by the sun. At first they remained far in the distance, where only elven eyes could see them despite the flatness of the plains. Then, as the hour progressed, they marched forward to make room for those behind. The rest of their army must have been crossing the river.

By late afternoon the front ranks of the army were clearly visible and by early evening they were less than a mile away. Aragorn held hurried conference with their allies before deciding that their army would stand its ground. They would not be drawn into fighting in conditions that gave the orcs an immediate advantage.

At Treebeard’s suggestion the ents had moved to the front of the army, placing themselves in clear view of the orcs. Few of the orc commanders, if any, would recognise an ent. Such a distraction might well delay them for a few hours yet as they tried to decide what threat this new enemy posed.

It had. For tense hours the ents had stared down the orcs, whilst the men and elves had caught what sleep they could. Their enemy had not moved. Small fires had appeared in the darkness, campfires as the orcs also settled in for the evening. Then, just before dawn, Elladan had heard the sound he hated most.

The screech of the Nazgûl.

No longer unmounted, the six remaining Nazgûl flew over Osgiliath on beasts straight out of nightmare.

‘That,’ Merry had said beside Elladan, in a conversational tone, ‘is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.’

‘Is it a dragon?’ Pippin had asked. ‘Bilbo said dragons had huge wings and long necks – although I’m sure he said they had shiny scales as well.’

‘That is no dragon,’ Elladan had heard Bofur reply, even as he continued eyeing the beasts. ‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a dragon. Which is good. Less chance of burning to death.’

‘We hope,’ Sigrid had said quietly. The Nazgûl had screeched again and they’d all winced, Sigrid reaching up to cover her ears for a moment.

Across the field the orcs had obeyed the command that must have been in that noise, and began to march forward.

‘Time to take our places,’ Sigrid had told Elladan quietly. He’d nodded in agreement. As Bofur had led Merry and Pippin to join the infantry, Sigrid and Elladan had moved forward. As soon as the Nazgûl had appeared King Thengel’s horn had sounded and the Rohirrim had run for their horses, mounting and forming up swiftly. Aragorn’s commands to Gondor’s army had soon followed and the men of Morthond had marched, joining Sigrid and Elladan at the very front of the army.

Now here they were, each man dropping to one knee even as they bent their bow staves and strung them. Sigrid drew two arrows from her quiver and stabbed them into the ground next to her. Elladan left his in the quiver but drew the string back to check the draw.

Behind them he felt the elves of Lothlórien fall into place, standing so they could fire over the heads of the men before them. They were virtually silent and Elladan knew that if he looked he would see them still and focused, all their attention on the enemy they faced.

Further back, behind the Rohirrim, the infantry of Gondor would also be forming up, Aragorn, Ecthelion and Denethor at their head. On either side of the army the ents stood sentinel, ready to block any attempt to flank their allies. Treebeard’s voice sounded, deep and rumbling, as he gave final instructions to his fellows.

It was the eye of the storm, the moment before chaos descended. The orcs drew nearer and nearer, roaring and swearing in their guttural tongue, bashing swords and spears against shields or against the floor. Moves designed to break the nerve of their enemies. Elladan glanced down his line and saw that the men of Morthond, at least, would not break.

Then, finally and all at once, the armies were in place, the orcs several feet out of firing range. The Nazgûl swooped over the heads of the orcs, watching and intimidating but showing no desire to begin fighting.

Perhaps the presence of Gandalf the Grey – Gandalf the White, now, Elladan reminded himself – and Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien stayed their hands.

Then, at a bellowed command from their leader, the front rank of the orcs charged forward, breaking into a run almost immediately.

‘Tangado haid!’ Elladan heard Grandfather command his archers.

‘Draw!’ he shouted to the men of Morthond, wondering why Grandfather had decided to use Elvish when not all of their merry group of archers spoke the language.

Hearing ‘Leithio i philinn!’ from behind, Elladan continued with, ‘Aim! Fire!’ Seconds after the first flight of elven arrows soared overhead, a flight from the men struck the approaching orcs. Whole sections of their army fell, most slain by Lothlórien’s elves but no small number with Gondorian arrows sprouting from them. Elladan’s target dropped like a stone, much to his satisfaction, and promptly tripped the orcs behind and on his left, taking them all down in an untidy pile.

‘Perfect,’ he mumbled to himself contentedly, already reaching for another arrow.

‘Draw! Aim!’ he heard Grandfather shout (he was learning, good). ‘Fire!’ Elladan’s second arrow hit another orc in the neck, killing it almost instantly. Another flight of arrows from the elves picked off target after target amongst the orcs.

Then, for the last time, ‘Draw! Aim! Fire!’ Elves and men both followed the command, even as the orcs who had survived the first two volleys drew near. More fell, but none of the archers paid too much attention to the results of their shots.

‘Fall back!’ Celeborn commanded, and they all obeyed, breaking down the middle and sprinting to either side, out of the way of the Rohirrim. Elladan heard the Horn of Rohan sound out behind him, then the thunder of 6,000 horsemen all charging at once. He did not need to turn to imagine the result. The panic on the faces of the orcs. The roars of their commanders as they ordered the orcs to hold their ground. The pikes pointed forward, ready to take the Rohirrim to the ground. Those Riders who would not make it to the end of the charge.

Yet, most importantly, the flinches of the orcs as they realised death hurtled towards them on pounding hooves. The retreat as they tried to escape. The ranks beginning to break.

The way even the strongest orcs would fall before a charging horse and rider.

Fall they did, Elladan saw as he took his place. Some Uruk-hai had survived the charge but they were scattered, their lines broken. The Rohirrim continued to charge through, hewing about them from horseback as their spears were abandoned, swords taking their place. They galloped forward, death incarnate, until they faced orcs whose lines held strong, those who had been out of range when the archers fired.

Another horn sounded. The Rohirrim pulled back, those who could, and rode back towards the rest of the army. The orcs followed, some firing arrows and taking riders down from behind. Others had gathered their wits after the first charge and now threw themselves at the horsemen, fighting to pull them down off their mounts. Elladan could not identify faces from this distance but he could see the King’s banner, held high in the centre of the charge, and saw one rider attacked by such an orc, which grasped at his knee and yanked hard. The man of Rohan stabbed at the orc across the horse’s neck, apparently aiming for its eye, and when the orc flinched back and released his leg, the rider set his mount whirling. It kicked out at his attacker, catching its head and caving in its skull. Free, the rider charged after the King’s party and soon caught them up.

The Gondorian infantry stood far enough back that the Rohirrim had room to form up in front of them as they returned. Their ranks were thinner, as they were always going to be, but not to a worrying degree. Elladan whispered prayers to Eru and the Valar for the peace of the souls dying to stop Sauron’s charge.

As the cavalry regrouped it was his turn again. As before the archers of Morthond took the foreground, the elves spreading out in a wide fan to either side of them. Some orcs had not given up the pursuit of the Rohirrim, but the ents were making short work of these. They had found large rocks, though Elladan knew not where, and appeared to be creating a new sport by seeing how many they could take down with one great throw.

It looked like fun actually. Elladan wished he could try it.

‘Hold,’ his grandfather commanded to the archers as they waited for the orcs to come into firing range. Elladan was, once again, impressed by the courage of the men of Morthond. Even elven archers sometimes shot too early, caught by nerves, but these men simply watched and waited. Beside him was Sigrid, once again, and he turned to see a grim look on her face.

‘All well?’ he asked quietly, so only she could hear.

‘Missed one last time,’ she growled angrily. ‘I didn’t expect him to veer. This time _both_ arrows are going where I mean them to.’

Elladan smiled. He would wager good money Sigrid would not miss again.

Then the orcs drew within range. They had reformed, lines holding once more, though they looked warier than the first group that had approached. They knew the tactics that would be used against them this time, and Elladan wondered what they would do to try and counter them.

Then he found out.

Swooping down from above, the Nazgûl shrieked their war cries and almost deafened Elladan. He had no time to think of the effectiveness of that tactic. One great bestial claw caught him in its grasp and then he was flying through the air.

Then he thought nothing at all.

***

Bofur heard himself let out a roar of rage as the Nazgûl attacked the line of archers, swiping at them with deadly force and decimating their ranks. Lord Celeborn, he could see, had kept his feet and quickly commanded a retreat, his orders turning elven bows to the skies to fire at their most dangerous attackers.

‘Lord Aragorn?’ Denethor called, clearly asking whether they should go to the aid of their men. Bofur saw Aragorn’s head turn to the side, then heard a command to hold, and some of the men near Bofur let out a rumble of displeasure which fell silent as they caught the Ranger’s eye. Merry and Pippin, on either side of Bofur, were practically bouncing on their feet with worry as they watched the events before them.

For long moments Bofur couldn’t see Sigrid at all. Then he spotted her, a stance he’d know anywhere as she held her ground and fired. First at the mount of the nearest Nazgûl, which bucked and writhed in agony as the arrow drove home. Its rider was flung off as the beast flew away from its attacker, and Bofur let out a silent cheer, making sure no sound escaped this time. He had not often fought in an army, but he knew Dwalin would have ripped him apart for letting his personal feelings unsettle those near to him. Almost immediately Sigrid turned and began firing again, this time at the approaching orcs. One arrow, then another. When she reached for a third Bofur began chanting in his head, ‘run, lass, run, run!’ She ignored him, nocking the arrow and then firing. Then another.

Then, finally, she began to retreat. Around the time she’d shot her second arrow Gandalf had charged forward on the powerful grey horse he rode, which had appeared seemingly out of nowhere not long after his transformation, staff blazing with light. Three of the Nazgûl still in flight had flown back out of range, unwilling to come face to face with the bearer of that light. Gandalf cried out in a powerful voice, Elvish words that Bofur didn’t understand, and the light burned brighter. Screaming, the Nazgûl’s beasts flew off to the east, retreating to Mordor.

The two remaining Nazgûl readied to dive at the Men who were fleeing to safety, clearly planning to fling the archers about as they had their fellows. Bofur held his breath, certain that they were doomed.

He had not counted on Lady Galadriel.

How she had come so far past them without anyone realising Bofur didn’t know. She seemed to walk silently, Haldir and her battle guard surrounding her with swords and bows drawn, and she was now beyond the infantry, moving through the Rohirrim and approaching the remaining Nazgûl with hands raised.

Bofur had been told that the Lady of Lothlórien’s power lay in her own lands. He knew that was not entirely true, knew that she had used magic of some kind at the Battle of the East, but he had not expected this.

A breeze had been blowing from the early hours of the morning, fluttering the standards of the army even when they stood still. As Bofur had watched the Nazgûl’s attack the breeze had picked up, becoming a strong and strangely localised wind.

Now it was no longer just wind. Galadriel’s hair whipped around her, her clothes tugged to and fro by the disturbed air. The wind was soon a gale, centred on Galadriel and moving with her as she walked. It built and built, circling her as she moved, until finally she seemed to feel it had grown enough. Afire with fey power, Galadriel threw her hands forward and aimed the full force of her storm at the evil before her.

The Nazgûl, who had paused in their attack on the archers and flown towards Galadriel in search of more powerful prey, were flung back as if struck by a stone from a trebuchet. Their mounts tumbled end over end, battered by the winds until they hit the ground, right in the midst of the orcish army. The orcs scatted but any number of them were caught under the bulk of the beasts.

If the Nazgûl rose after their fall Bofur could see no sign, though he scanned the battlefield for a glimpse of them.

In doing so, he missed the moment when Galadriel collapsed, her energy spent.

Thengel did not.

The horns sounded and the Rohirrim charged, leaving a wide gap around Galadriel and her guard. Haldir had lifted her swiftly and was running to the rear of their lines.

The orcs, baffled by the defeat of their highest commanders, came to themselves to find the Riders of Rohan nearly upon them. The more alert captains hastily began to shove their nearest soldiers back into line.

The battle with the orcs was joined again.

The Nazgûl did not return.

******


	45. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have to make it to Mount Doom, and that means finding the heart to go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you will have gathered, real life has been kicking my arse for the last month :D Sorry for the delay. I have now worked out the timeline for getting to the end and I'm expecting it to be another 6 or 7 chapters, so not too much further to go now.

Chapter Forty-Four: Hide and Seek

Only when they were forced to stop, too out of breath to go on and hiding behind a rock which provided at least a little safety, did Thorin manage to make his way to Fíli. Tear tracks showed clearly through the grime that Mordor had left upon his nephew’s skin. Fíli looked devastated in a way Thorin remembered only too well.

‘Fíli,’ he said quietly. ‘Sweet lad.’

He felt more than saw Bilbo ushering Frodo and Legolas a little further away and was grateful for it. Fíli would need to believe they had not seen this, if he was to continue leading. Kíli was their brave soul, the one who could show everything he felt and still meet others’ eyes without a hint of embarrassment. Thorin and his eldest nephew had never quite mastered the skill.

‘I left him,’ Fíli said, so softly Thorin could barely hear him. ‘I left him behind.’

‘He stayed,’ Thorin countered. ‘He knew what had to be done and he stayed. A good leader knows when to let his people make their own decisions.’

‘Even their own family?’ Fíli asked bitterly, self-hatred clear in the curl of his lip.

‘Especially them,’ Thorin stated firmly. ‘You taught me that. You and he, doing what had to be done to reclaim our home.’

Fíli said nothing for a long moment, though he leant in when Thorin reached out to gather him close. Finally there was a whisper.

‘I _hate_ …,’ Fíli started, choking on a sob at the end. Thorin felt more tears on his neck and, for the first time, felt his own escape.

‘Don’t, sweet lad,’ he uttered. It was a command, but there was a certain amount of desperation to it as well. ‘Don’t hate.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Fíli gasped, but it held little conviction. Perhaps he had even anticipated Thorin’s next words.

‘I, too, left a brother behind,’ Thorin murmured. ‘Not in body, no, but in spirit. He lay on a battlefield hundreds of miles from home and I hated, Fíli. I hated so strongly I burned with it. For him, and for me. For what had been taken from us both.’

‘It made you strong,’ Fíli argued, voice still little more than a whisper.

‘Perhaps,’ Thorin answered. ‘Hate can make you strong. It can push you forward, carry you on. Maybe even all the way to the end. But it will be no good end, Fíli. Hate made me blind. It made me careless of anything but my hate. In another lifetime, one which fades more and more every day I live this one, hate killed both my dear lads… and I could not bear it. Do not let it kill them again. Move forward because you love him. Not because you hate them.’

‘Bilbo was right,’ Fíli said, raising his head for the first time to look Thorin in the eye. ‘About what you did, what Mahal did.’

Thorin nodded.

Fíli stared as seconds passed, then pressed his forehead to Thorin’s own, as he had so recently with his brother.

‘I do not ever wish to be without both of you again,’ Thorin whispered. ‘I want him back, but no more than I wish to keep you with me. Kíli would wish it too.’

Fíli closed his eyes and stood still as the stone they were carved from. Then he nodded.

‘For Kí. For Bilbo and Frodo. For Mum. And for you,’ he promised. Thorin knew there were other names in that list. Many, many others. As a start, however, this one would more than work.

It would keep them going.

***

And it did. They rested only a few minutes more before Legolas told them in hushed whispers that the orcs were approaching. Not close, yet; Kíli was too good at what he did for that. He had held them for long minutes that had given his family a lead, but he could not have held them forever.

‘How many?’ Fíli asked grimly, meeting Legolas’ eyes dead on, as if there had never been any tears. Legolas did him the honour of pretending it had been so, though doubtless he had heard every word of their conversation.

‘Twenty,’ Legolas answered, and Fíli nodded.

‘There were at least thirty when Ki… when we moved on,’ he said, bittersweet satisfaction threaded through his voice. ‘They’ve been bitten. Maybe it will make them cautious.’

‘We can but hope,’ Bilbo replied heavily. Thorin knew he would have to speak to Bilbo when next they stopped. Their hobbit had adored Kíli just as much as Thorin had. The least he could do was try to ease Bilbo’s heart a little before they began the final leg of this long, soul-destroying journey.

He deliberately silenced the quiet voice that asked who would ease his pain. Pointedly ignored the thought that followed. Or tried to.

How would he ever explain to Dís that he had taken their youngest into battle, and had not died in Kíli’s place?

Still, there was no time for such concerns now. Not with the orcs drawing closer and Mount Doom still ahead. Fíli reached for his pack, signalling the end of their rest, and Thorin followed his lead.

They moved on, again, marching north-east towards Mount Doom’s looming summit. There was no time for talking, nor breath for it. Perhaps if there had been no orcs around they would have moved more slowly, waiting until they were certain that Sauron’s forces were elsewhere before trying to mount an attack at the centre of his kingdom.

There were orcs, though, and not just the ones on their tail.

As the small group ran down the paths that led to their destination, Thorin had never been more grateful for elven sight and hearing. Time and again Legolas gave a hiss that had Fíli drawing them to a halt. Veering off the path, they hurried up the rocky sides of scree-covered hills, pressed themselves against the ground and covered themselves with their cloaks. It worked each time, orcish troops marching past and leaving them unhindered.

Yet, somehow, they never lost their original pursuers.

‘How are they _doing_ it?’ Frodo snarled in frustration during an infrequent pause for breath, after Legolas once again confirmed that they were still being followed. ‘None of the others notice us. How do they know to keep coming?’

‘The other orcs are not looking for us,’ Legolas answered, eyes still scanning the horizon. ‘They have no reason to wonder about the tracks on these Valar-damned shale paths. For all they know the tracks were simply left by another groups of orcs making their way hither and thither. Our orcs know that we are here, so they look hard and see much.’

‘Let us not claim them, please,’ Bilbo said, voice tired but dry. Even now, with all that had happened, they could not resist the black humour they were so familiar with. ‘I have quite enough troublesome acquaintances without adding orcs to their number.’

‘They have not alerted any of their fellows,’ Fíli commented, eyes looking back the way they had come. Thorin knew what, or rather who, he was looking for and felt his heart clench with grief anew.

‘No,’ Legolas agreed. ‘They have not. They do not wish to share the prize, and they know that any group foolish enough to enter their Master’s lands must be some sort of prize.’

‘Better for us,’ Frodo concluded, taking his one mouthful of water as he finally finished chewing on the hardtack they had claimed in Cair Andros. ‘Their greed is all that’s saving us right now.’

‘Let’s go,’ Fíli ordered, and then began to run again. Thorin knew they could only keep this up for so long. Even he and Fíli, with all their dwarven stamina, could not run forever without needing to sleep. By unspoken agreement Thorin had kept the ring ever since they began running, and as they approached Mount Doom it insistently made its presence known, hammering at his mind like a battering ram. Soon he would have to stop, if only so he could take the damned thing off for a moment of mental peace.

Thorin made it another two hours before Fíli, spotting the hand he had pressed to his temple, drew them into a narrow gully between two hills and decreed that they would go no further for now.

***

The rest was more than welcome for all of them. Bilbo collapsed against one side of the gully and immediately closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he tried to slow his pounding heart. He felt Frodo slide to the floor beside him and then his nephew’s head settling against his shoulder. Within moments Frodo was asleep.

‘We’ll make a fine soldier out of this one,’ Bilbo heard Thorin say, the teasing so gentle Bilbo could raise no ire at all. ‘He can sleep anywhere.’

‘Clearly exhaustion makes fine soldiers, then,’ Bilbo answered, words almost slurred with tiredness. ‘I knew there was a reason I did not want to be one.’

‘How are you holding up?’ Thorin asked after a moment of quiet. Bilbo opened his eyes and saw that Fíli lay curled up on the floor in a ball, cloak pulled in tight around him. He could have given no clearer sign that he wanted to be alone, unless he had scrawled ‘GO AWAY!’ on the floor in front of him.

Legolas, rather more interested in what Fíli needed than what he wanted, settled next to him and rested a hand upon his friend’s cloak-covered head. Fíli tried to shake it off, but Legolas would not be moved. Finally, Fíli relaxed slightly, and Legolas lifted his head gently to lay it on his lap.

‘Any pillow has to be better than the ground,’ Bilbo heard him say softly when Fíli protested. Fíli did not argue.

‘How can I not carry on, when he is doing so?’ Bilbo asked quietly. ‘When you are doing so? If it were Frodo…’

‘Would it be any different?’ Thorin queried, equally quietly. ‘Does blood change so much, Bilbo? He is still your nephew, whether you are Dís’ brother or not. Just as Frodo is still mine.’

Bilbo chuckled wetly, then swallowed back rising tears.

‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if they were cowards,’ Bilbo admitted once he felt in control of himself once more. ‘If they were not so intrinsically heroic. If he had just stayed with us, they might not have overwhelmed him.’

‘Perhaps,’ Thorin agreed, ‘but then they would not be as we raised them to be. They would not be the sort of dwarves, and hobbit, that save the world. I suppose, if nothing else, we will never doubt whose nephew he was, or whose son. He has all of your self-sacrifice, and all of Dís’ sense of duty.’

‘None of which he got from you, of course,’ Bilbo pointed out wryly. ‘Valar, what a mess!’

They were silent for a moment or two, each locked in their own thoughts. Then Bilbo sighed and looked down at the ground.

‘I will destroy you if it is the very last thing I ever do,’ he swore, staring at the belt pouch holding the ring, which Thorin had taken off but left nearby. ‘And as Sauron’s world collapses down around his non-existent ears, I hope he knows, and you know, exactly who got us right into the heart of his stronghold. I hope he dies with Kíli’s name shrieking through his head.’

‘Vicious little things, hobbits,’ Thorin murmured in response. ‘I would never have believed it when I first met you, but there it is. Also, you realise that talking to this thing is what got Sméagol where he was when you first met him? If you start calling it ‘precious’ I shall be forced to take drastic action.’

Bilbo nudged his stomach with one elbow, though without much force behind it. With his promise to the ring made, he could feel tiredness creeping through him once more. Following Frodo’s example, he was quickly falling asleep.

***

Fíli woke with a cry on his lips, his brother’s name escaping with such grief tainting it that Legolas felt his heart cry out in sympathy, even as he jerked awake.

It only worsened when Fíli opened his eyes and looked swiftly around, searching for brown hair and a carefree smile.

‘He is not here,’ Legolas whispered, some useless impulse preventing him from speaking the words too loudly. ‘He stayed behind.’

Fíli did not answer. His breath came in gasps that Legolas pretended not to notice.

He was doing a lot of pretending of late.

Finally, Fíli stilled and Legolas let his gaze drift away from the rock in front of him, down to meet his friend’s eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ he said with all the sincerity he could muster. ‘Fíli, I am so sorry. If I had known what he planned I would have stayed instead.’

‘Then I would grieve for you instead,’ Fíli said, though had Legolas been anything but elven he might have missed the words. ‘And Kí would never have forgiven himself.’

Fíli looked at Legolas dead on, and Legolas could see he meant his next words, and had meant those before. ‘I loved him more than anything, mellon-nin, but there is no one in our family I am prepared to lose. It would be no better if it was you and not him.’

Legolas could only nod his agreement. It was true for him as well. He wanted nothing more than to turn back time, to go and retrieve the dwarf who had stormed into his life and somehow manoeuvred him into a friendship he had, at the time, neither wanted nor expected.

But that dwarf had not come alone. He had come alongside his fair-haired brother, the light that shone from him doubled in strength whenever they were together. He had come accompanied by a King with a dry, surprising humour; a hobbit who brought both quiet strength and loud laughter into the stillness of the Woodland Realm; in time they had brought more and more of Legolas’ family to him. He knew would grieve no less if it was Thorin who had stayed behind, or Bilbo, or Frodo, or Fíli himself.

So he had to trust that Fíli meant what he said. That though blood linked Fíli and Kíli together, other bonds could be just as strong.

‘I always meant to ask him,’ Legolas began, then paused. Perhaps this was not the best time. Fíli would have enough regrets of his own, he did not need the weight of more to push down on him.

‘Tell me,’ Fíli said. When Legolas still looked reluctant, Fíli pressed him. ‘I need something else to think about, Legolas, and… it helps, knowing I’m not alone in this.’

‘I always meant to ask why he did not pursue a relationship with Tauriel,’ Legolas whispered, looking away from Fíli as embarrassment took hold. Until now, he had never even admitted that there had been anything to ask about. There had been no more than a few days of tension before the whole issue disappeared as if it had never existed. ‘She would have said yes, I’m sure of it.’

Fíli nodded, apparently not entirely surprised by the revelation. Legolas breathed a little easier as some embarrassment faded.

‘He told me, once Smaug was dead, that he enjoyed the friendship you were building, all three of you, too much to ruin it with something that could never be more than a brief interlude for Tauriel,’ Fíli explained. ‘You are immortal, and we are not. Besides, it was the first time he had ever had someone who truly enjoyed talking about bows and arrows for hours on end. Most of our dwarven acquaintances did the verbal equivalent of patting him on the head and backing away slowly whenever he got started. It would have been a shame to lose all that over an infatuation with someone he barely knew. By the time they did know one another better, you had all settled into a comfortable rhythm and he preferred not to break it. I can only assume Tauriel did not either.’

‘That is good to know,’ Legolas answered, feeling his heart lighten a bit. ‘I worried, at one time, that he gave her up to save the alliance with my father, because he thought I would contrive to end it if they chose one another. I hoped not, but the thought occurred nonetheless.’

‘If our alliance could have broken over such a thing Kíli would have considered it not worth the effort of keeping,’ Fíli said. ‘He would have understood the ending of a friendship, though he wished to avoid it, but he would have had a very definite opinion of someone who took their broken heart out on an entire kingdom. He never believed you had that in you.’

The conversation paused again, and after some seconds Fíli rose and walked over to the mouth of the gully. Legolas joined him, looking out at Mordor’s black expanse. The place reeked of death and destruction and Legolas hated it more than any other place he had ever been. Which he should have expected really, but the physical nausea he felt at being here had still taken him by surprise.

Focusing his eyes on the area around them, Legolas searched for signs of their pursuers. What he saw both relieved and worried him.

‘We had best wake the others,’ he told Fíli. ‘The orcs have got ahead of us.’

***

‘So the good news is that they’re no longer chasing us,’ Bilbo concluded worriedly, ‘and the bad news is that they’re bound to figure out they’ve passed us eventually and now they’re right in our way.’

‘That about sums it up,’ Fíli agreed. Then his forced calm slipped for a moment and Frodo watched as his cousin shouted, ‘Damn it ALL!’ and kicked the nearest rock.

Fíli squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, breathed deeply and pressed his hand against the wall of the gully, head down. Frodo wondered if Uncle Thorin would say something, but he just watched Fíli carefully.

A minute later, Fíli raised his head and looked at their companions gravely.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured quickly. ‘That was stupid, someone could have heard.’

‘We all have our moments,’ Uncle Thorin replied, just gruff enough that he could pretend he was not fighting the urge to gather Fíli up and shield him from all of this. Uncle Thorin hated it when they were hurt, he always had.

Fíli nodded and gave himself a little shake, determination replacing frustrated anger. Frodo remembered drowning in guilt and how strong his cousins had been for him, how desperately he had wanted to be like them.

He wanted it just as much now. They were heroes, and he would be worthy of them, somehow.

‘We have to do something about them,’ Fíli asserted, ‘and I think I know what, but you may not like it.’

‘Try us,’ Bilbo offered. When Fíli did, Frodo realised his chance to be worthy might have come a little earlier than he’d expected.

They stayed in the gully only a few minutes longer, eager to get started before the orcs realised their mistake. This time, however, they didn’t travel together.

Legolas, Fíli and Uncle Thorin remained further behind, the ring tied securely to Uncle Thorin’s belt. Bilbo and Frodo went ahead, Fíli’s instructions firmly in mind.

Cloak hoods up, stepping as quietly and carefully as only hobbits could, they followed the trail left by twenty pairs of orcish boots. It was a clear, wide trail. The orcs had been in a hurry and had no concern about being followed.

That was their first mistake.

The second was entirely the fault of their leader. Legolas had been right, the orc was greedy for glory and uncaring of the cost to his soldiers as he chased it. He led them only by virtue of being the biggest and the strongest, as was common among orcs. Cleverness only got you so far, in a world where a stab in the back alerted your fellows that you couldn’t be trusted and usually led to your body being displayed on a pike as a perverted mascot when next they went to war.

So this orc was a true paragon of his kind. Large, strong, able to run for days on little rest and little food… and dumb as an ox.

He had no head for strategy, nor much for any kind of thought. He had pressed on, following the path in the certainty that his prey would continue to flee in the direction they had been travelling in before, and entirely failed to notice several of his fellows falling behind.

Bilbo and Frodo found the first almost by accident. As they turned a corner, still moving as quietly as possible, they found the orc bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, gasping for air. It was so fortunate that for a second they both stared in shock, before Frodo snapped back to life. His hand tightened on his sword, the memory of Uncle Thorin’s hand atop his own giving him strength.

Then he took five steps forward, reached out, grabbed the scraggly bits of hair on the orc’s scalp, yanked its head back and slit its throat.

‘That was… efficient,’ Bilbo commented, when the body had fallen to the floor at Frodo’s feet.

‘Uncle Dwal…,’ Frodo began, then paused. Uncle Dwalin wasn’t Uncle Bilbo’s favourite topic at the moment.

‘Go on, Frodo,’ Uncle Bilbo said gently, though, ‘tell me.’

‘Uncle Dwalin says just because you have to kill something doesn’t mean you have to make it painful. Orcs are wrong, twisted by Sauron into something they were never meant to be. If you can, you put them down as easily as possible, and then maybe the Valar can undo what was done to them.’

‘Sometimes Dwalin almost sounds like a person of sense,’ Uncle Bilbo replied. He gave Frodo a small smile, a momentary lightening of the weight that pressed down on all of them now, now that Kíli was gone and their task was so near its end. ‘Only sometimes, though.’

‘Yes, Uncle Bilbo,’ Frodo said, letting his tone become a little cheeky. Bilbo noticed, and gave him a mock-stern look.

‘Do not think you can get impudent with me, lad,’ he warned. Frodo bit down an unexpected giggle, the sound almost obscene after all that had preceded it. ‘Do not be afraid to laugh, either, Frodo.’ Uncle Bilbo said then. ‘Kíli believed in laughter more than any of us. He would be doing his best to get it out of you right now.’

Frodo realised that was true, and decided then that, if Kíli could no longer do it, he would have to take up his cousin’s torch.

They might be stuck in the heart of Mordor, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to laugh about.

***

By the time they returned to the others several hours later, Bilbo and Frodo had whittled their opponents’ numbers down by six. All of them had been separated from their fellows, left behind in their leader’s onward rush. They had not all been easy kills. Frodo’s ribs were bruised, much to his disgust, and Uncle Bilbo had a slash on his arm that Fíli was treating with salve and bandaging.

‘We came back because the rest of the orc pack was too close,’ Frodo reported as Fíli worked. ‘If we’d killed any others the orcs would have heard the noise and might have come looking.’

‘Sensible,’ Fíli and Uncle Thorin said simultaneously. Uncle Thorin shook his head.

‘That brings them down to less than fifteen,’ Legolas stated. ‘Three to one, still not odds I like given what is at stake.’

‘Eventually they will have to stop,’ Bilbo theorised. ‘The number of them who have been left behind show how tired they’re getting. Even if that blockhead leading them carries on, eventually he’ll find himself doing so alone.’

‘So your suggestion is?’ Fíli asked.

‘Give Frodo and I an hour to catch our breath,’ Bilbo suggested. ‘Then let us go back and get as close as we can. The rest of you do not have to be far away, only out of sight. We’ll keep pace with them, pick off the stragglers as we have today. When the orcs stop, we can come and get the rest of you and take them by surprise.’

Legolas, Uncle Thorin and Fíli all nodded, turning the plan over in their minds.

‘Do it,’ Fíli confirmed, ‘but only as long as they are in our way. If we’re really lucky they’ll assume we’re headed for Barad-dûr and rush right on past.’

‘When have we ever been that lucky?’ Uncle Thorin asked, though Frodo noticed that his hand was resting gently on Fíli’s back, offering unspoken support.

‘Mum always says there’s a first time for everything,’ Fíli replied, trying to smile a little. It was not the strongest effort, but they all returned it all the same.

******


	46. Breaking the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing that is guaranteed on a battlefield is chaos.

Chapter Forty-Five: Breaking The Line

‘Elladan, get up!’ a voice shouted irritably in his ear, far too loud by Elladan’s reckoning. ‘Get up!’

‘No yelling,’ was his response, in a tone he felt was perfectly reasonable. Oh, Valar, he felt awful. How much had he drunk?

Wait.

His mouth wasn’t dry.

His whole body ached, every inch from head to foot.

His head was ringing, not just aching.

Maybe, he had not been….

‘I will shriek like a Lake-town fishwife if it will get you up,’ the voice responded, urgency clear in every syllable. ‘We have to _go_.’

The first words which sprang to mind were all questions.

Where was he?

What had happened?

Why was it so damned important that he move when he already felt this horrendous?

However, being an elf of long years and experience (no matter what certain golden-haired captains had to say about “wet behind the ears” peredhel), particularly experience of angry voices such as the one he was currently encountering, Elladan decided that now probably wasn’t the time. Instead he pushed himself to a sitting position, letting the nausea that caused settle before risking opening his eyes.

‘Lady Sigrid,’ he murmured as loud as he could bear, ‘how good to see you on this…’ Elladan paused as he looked around carefully, ‘orc-infested battlefield.’

Oh, blast, so that was where he was.

‘I’ll look even better when you’re standing up,’ Sigrid said. Allowing no room for contradiction, she got her shoulder under his arm and heaved until he was on his feet. ‘Time to go.’

Viewing a group of approaching orcs with a weary eye, Elladan could only agree with her. Especially as his memory was returning in short order and leaving him with grave concerns about what else could be attacking at any moment.

‘Nazgûl?’ he questioned quickly as he started to put one foot in front of the other. Sigrid looked far less forbidding now that he was cooperating, so at least he did not have to worry about being shouted at again.

‘Strangely, they seem to be somewhat terrified of your grandmother,’ Sigrid informed him, not sounding the tiniest bit surprised. ‘And of Gandalf. They’ve all retreated back into Mordor, or so it appears. I’ve not seen any of them in the air.’

‘That’s good,’ Elladan mumbled. His head was protesting the movement rather violently and he was having to focus all of his energy on walking, eyes on the ground before him to try and avoid any potholes that might trip him up. He was worryingly aware that he was not moving at a speed which would help them outpace orcs. Also that, in aiding him, Sigrid was putting herself in a large amount of danger.

While he was devoting himself to this task, however, Sigrid turned suddenly. Thrown off balance Elladan stumbled and nearly fell, until Sigrid realised what she had done and hastened to catch him. The movement jolted his already pained body and Elladan groaned, retching embarrassingly on the ground.

Sigrid uttered a number of phrases in Khuzdul which Elladan was very sure her father did not know she knew.

‘Sorry, Elladan. I didn’t think, I shouldn’t have...’

‘Alright,’ he managed, once the retching finished. ‘Mistake.’

‘A stupid one,’ Sigrid agreed. ‘It’s good news though. You’re not going to have to walk after all.’

Before Elladan could make sense of that, addled as he was, the source of the good news arrived.

‘Lady Sigrid, do you need help?’ a young voice asked worriedly.

‘I do, Théoden, thank you,’ she replied with clear relief. ‘Or rather Elladan does. Could you take him back behind the lines please?’

‘Of course,’ Théoden answered rapidly. ‘Come, my Lord, I’ll see you safe.’

‘Probably best to find my sister,’ Elladan told him, contemplating the challenge of getting himself onto horseback. Sigrid stepped forward and cupped her hands together and Elladan realised with great chagrin that he really was going to need to be helped up like a small child.

‘The humbling will do you good,’ Sigrid told him sharply, though her smile softened the words. ‘Up you go.’

Between them they managed it, though once ahorse Elladan did find himself retching again. He must have hit his head very, very hard. Thrice-cursed Nazgûl. He hoped fervently that Grandmother had given them a thorough, magical, pounding.

Or that Grandfather got hold of one of them.

That would be good. Physical pounding would work just as well.

‘Quickly, please, Théoden,’ Sigrid requested gently of the young Prince of Rohan, even as she drew her bow and turned to face the small group of approaching orcs. Elladan would have panicked for her had he not seen Treebeard bearing down with the speed only an ent could manage. ‘I do not like the look of him.’

‘You never do,’ Elladan told her wryly, despite his weakened state. Sigrid laughed, then seemed startled by the sound.

‘Oh, get on with you,’ was her only response, as Théoden saluted and turned his mount about. Elladan braced himself for the agony that the next few minutes were going to be. Then he chided himself firmly.

At least he was alive to feel the agony.

***

Thankfully, it was only short minutes before the orcs who had broken away to follow Sigrid and Elladan were dealt with. Treebeard had been so thorough that Sigrid had not even needed to nock an arrow. The orcs were something of a pulp, which would make them regrettably difficult to burn, but they were dealt with.

‘I perhaps did not plan that very well,’ Treebeard uttered in a contemplative tone. ‘Dead orc between ones roots is not a pleasant feeling.’

‘My sympathies,’ Sigrid told him sincerely. He nodded his thanks.

‘Still, better a dead orc than a live one,’ Treebeard continued bracingly. ‘I fear you are somewhat far ahead of your fellows, young one. The rest of the archers have now retreated and the men of Gondor are readying to face the remains of Sauron’s army.’

‘Which means I am late and Bofur will be annoyed with me,’ Sigrid concluded. ‘Oh dear. I will not hear the end of this for some time.’

‘That I can help with,’ Treebeard offered, reaching one huge, branching hand downwards. Jumping into his grasp, Sigrid was more than glad that they had come across the ents in Fangorn all those weeks ago. They were very helpful allies.

Without ever moving faster than a brisk walk, Treebeard covered more ground than Sigrid could have at a sprint, only pausing briefly to kick an approaching orc. It went flying through the air, soaring over the heads of its fellows, a number of whom stopped to watch its passage in astonishment. They were swiftly punished for their inattention when a small group of Rohirrim charged through and cut them down.

‘I do not know why I had never thought of trying such a tactic before,’ Treebeard informed Sigrid genially. ‘Perhaps I ought to have taken up killing orcs many years ago. It is rather… refreshing. The mind comes up with all sorts of new approaches to an old problem.’

‘So I have found,’ Sigrid replied truthfully. Desperation, Legolas had told her once, was the mother of invention. Any number of the moves which he now used to the astonishment of anyone watching had, originally, been a rather uncoordinated attempt to get out of a tight spot.

She had been sworn to secrecy on that point, of course. Legolas was rather fond of his reputation.

‘I will leave you here,’ Treebeard said suddenly, making Sigrid realise how far they had come. There was Aragorn, already at the head of his forces as they prepared to charge.

And there was her beloved looking expectedly, and probably justly, irritated.

‘Elladan was injured,’ she said even as Treebeard placed her gently on the ground, waving off her sincere thanks. ‘I couldn’t just leave him there.’

Bofur opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again.

‘Fair enough,’ he said with a shrug, stretching out a hand to tug her into the line next to him. ‘We’ll be speaking about how many arrows to shoot at an enemy before you run away, though.’

‘Fair enough,’ Sigrid answered in turn. She caught Bofur’s eye and saw the twinkle in it, along with the roll of Alnir’s eyes where he stood nearby, and felt comforted. Though she had fought many battles without them over the years, the battles in which she knew they were around to guard her back were always the easiest.

Now all she needed was Bain, and all of this would be distinctly manageable.

Pity Bain was rather further north (or so she hoped), but perhaps that was just the incentive she needed to break these orcs once and for all.

***

They waited a few minutes more, alert for Aragorn’s signal, before the command came. The Rohirrim’s second charge, coming on the back of the defeat of the Nazgûl, had left the orcs reeling. The Rohirrim had successfully broken their second line, slaying a good portion of their enemies in the chaos that followed. Thengel had allowed them some time to ensure that this line of orcs was not going to rally, then had pulled them back once more.

Now, gathered in front of the infantry, the Rohirrim were ready for their final charge.

‘Commander with any sense would have pulled them back,’ Alnir muttered to Sigrid, watching the orcs being driven forward by the roars of their leaders. Their third and final line was being pushed ahead as well, trying to fill the gaps that had formed when the Rohirrim hacked their way through. It was a foolish tactic, but Sigrid was beginning to wonder if the orcs had any real grasp of strategy without their masters present to direct them. She had not faced a full army before, only ragged bands marauding through the lands outside Dale. They were a different proposition altogether.

‘Then let us thank Mahal for the stupidity of our enemies,’ Bofur interjected, a saying Sigrid knew he had picked up from Thorin and Dwalin. It seemed appropriate for the moment, so Sigrid and Alnir repeated the phrase, Merry and Pippin joining in with small laughs.

Before they had finished, the horn of Rohan sounded across the battlefield and the Rohirrim roared their battlecry ‘DEATH!’ as they hurtled ahead. Sigrid was wholeheartedly glad that Dale had never caused any great offence to Rohan (her own rather unfortunate introduction to Thengel aside) and that she was unlikely to ever face its army in battle.

Then Gondor’s horn finally sounded as well, echoing about them, and following it a cry of ‘For the King!’ That particular cat, she realised, was somehow well and truly out of the bag. She only hoped Aragorn would not be wroth with whoever had spilled the secret.

Beginning to run alongside her fellow warriors, Sigrid pushed the thought aside.

Now was the time to fight.

***

Merry wasn’t sure whether he was glad to be the smallest person on the battlefield, other than Pippin, or not.

On the one hand, this meant that far fewer orcs realised he was there and he was doing a rather good job of catching them unawares and skewering them, or cutting their hamstrings.

On the other, it meant that a great many things around him insisted on trying to occupy space that was already taken.

‘Ow!’ he hissed angrily as yet _another_ orc nearly trod on him. Merry slashed at its stomach and left it trying to hold its guts in as punishment. Bloody orcs!

‘Ten,’ Pippin huffed next to him. They had stuck close to one another, making sure at least one of them had an eye on Strider at any given moment. Neither wanted to be too far away from their friend if they could avoid it.

‘Ten you’ve killed?’ Merry asked, impressed and trying not to let it show.

‘No,’ Pippin answered, sounding entirely put out. ‘Ten that have nearly trampled me. Perhaps we should have taken those boots.’

‘We’d have fallen over,’ Merry countered, dodging a mace aimed at Alnir’s shoulder and slicing at the orc’s legs to bring it down. Alnir spared him a quick smile of thanks, then spotted another orc aiming at Bofur’s unprotected back and ran forward to block the strike. Merry liked watching the other members of the Fellowship in battle. They were all skilled warriors and, on top of the lessons he and Pippin had received, watching them at work helped him figure out the best thing to do in different situations.

He particularly liked watching the ones who knew each other well. Alnir, Bofur and Sigrid had mastered the art of always knowing where the other was, without even having to look, just as Aragorn and Elladan clearly had. That was a skill Merry desperately wanted to master as well, so he could be sure he was not going to lose Pippin as he had lost Sméagol.

For now, however, he settled for catching Pip’s arm and pulling him forward a few steps, into a space where there was more room for them to move. Pip tugged back, not pulling Merry along but catching his attention. He pointed to an orc about twenty feet away; an Uruk-hai, big and mean-looking and armed, unlike many of his fellows, with a human-forged greatsword. A battle-token, perhaps, from a soldier he’d killed.

At that moment, the Uruk-hai was focused on one of the newer, younger soldiers in Aragorn’s army. Merry recognised him, knew that he had been present when Pippin had recreated their fight with the Nazgûl, and knew that he and Pip would have to do something to save the man. One of the lieutenants was trying to reach him but his way was blocked, apparently deliberately, by a group of orcs.

Merry had no time for any orc, but even less for one that deliberately picked on a young lad just to torment him and those who wanted to protect him.

Together he and Pip started to move, ducking weapons and arms, and occasionally legs, as they weaved their way across the short distance. The orc was taking its time, a delighted sneer on its face as the young lad swallowed and put all of his focus into keeping the correct stance. His fear was palpable until the lieutenant shouted something, whether reassurance or command Merry could not tell, and the lad’s hands steadied.

By this time Merry and Pippin were within reach, completely undetected as the orcs’ arrogance kept their eyes on the show in front of them. Pippin signalled to Merry, who nodded, and they split up. Merry went right, and Pippin left. The orc had his back to them, swinging his greatsword at his target and laughing as the man parried and gasped with pain as the impact vibrated up his arms.

Fortunately for the hobbits, this meant that the Uruk-hai never saw them coming. As one, Merry and Pippin shot forward and stabbed, catching the orc where a hobbit’s kidneys would have been on each side.

The orc roared, anger as well as pain, but the intervention had restored his original victim’s confidence. The man raised his own sword, stepped forward and stabbed it through the orc’s heart as it was distracted by falling to its knees.

‘Thank you,’ the man said hurriedly, catching Merry’s eye.

‘You’re welcome,’ Merry replied instinctively, before looking about and realising that the group of surrounding orcs were now well and truly aware of his presence. ‘Uh oh.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the young soldier reassured him. ‘We’ll get them together.’

Merry was more comforted than he expected to be, but nowhere near as much as he was a moment later when the head of a nearby orc went flying past, followed by one of the tallest figures on the battlefield.

Strider had arrived.

***

The hardest part about battles, Aragorn had known for many years, was not the fighting. Well, not for him anyway.

The hardest part was keeping an eye on everything at once, whilst ensuring that he did not die in the process.

In the north he had Halbarad to aid him. Here, lucky as he was, Ecthelion, Denethor and their officers were guiding the flow of the battle as best they could, rallying their soldiers when they were struggling and calling a retreat when necessary so that they could regroup. Even so, Aragorn was keenly aware of the responsibility on his shoulders, the knowledge that Ecthelion would take his word as final.

Of course the whole thing would probably be easier if he did not have to race across the field to ensure that Merry and Pippin did not get themselves killed by a group of orcs out for revenge, but he could hardly blame them for it.

He would not want the sort of men, or hobbits, who could ignore another’s peril as his friends anyway.

It was also harder to concentrate when every part of him was desperately afraid for Elladan, whom he had not seen since his foster-brother went flying through the air during the Nazgûl’s attack. Instinct had had him ready to break his own lines to charge off in that direction, ready to find Elladan and drag him to safety… please, Valar, let him need to be dragged to safety. Let him not be dead on this damned field somewhere.

Only duty, and the knowledge that Lord Celeborn would certainly have sent someone to find his grandson, had helped Aragorn stay where he was.

Thankfully most of the orcs they faced were little challenge for an experienced warrior, particularly one who had been trained until he could match elven speed. Aragorn got a certain amount of satisfaction from the expressions of shock on the faces of enemies who had never seen him coming. Two slashes of Anduril’s razor-sharp blade carved an orc attacking Pippin almost in two and a good kick finished the process. Reversing the sword, Aragorn stabbed backwards and caught another orc – one who did not have the sense to approach his target quietly – just under the heart. It took a little effort to pull the blade free, but Aragorn was helped by the man his hobbits had saved (whose name he was almost sure was Brin) who put his booted foot against the orc’s stomach and shoved sharply.

‘Thank you,’ Aragorn told him kindly, even as he took advantage of a lull to check what was going on elsewhere.

‘Not at all, my lord,’ Brin answered immediately. Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn saw the slight smile the man wore change to a deep frown. Merry and Pippin must have noticed it as well, for they drew closer and Merry reached to touch Brin’s arm.

‘What is it?’ Merry asked quickly, and Brin’s frown only deepened.

‘There,’ he said sharply, pointing to a part of the fighting some distance away, in the opposite direction from Aragorn’s gaze. Aragorn turned to look that way and soon realised what was causing Brin’s frown.

‘Not good,’ Pippin said at that same moment. ‘Very not good, Strider.’

‘I agree,’ Aragorn told them all. ‘Come along, gentlemen. We had best go and do something about that.’

That, unfortunately, was the only Nazgûl who had apparently _not_ fled the battle. Aragorn cursed himself for not having imagined that one of the foul things would stay behind. He had expected all of them to flee to their Master once they realised that they were outmatched here.

Clearly this one was not as intelligent as the others. Either that or it had enough sense to fear Sauron’s wrath more than an army.

It had stayed and, though Aragorn was sure that that section of the battlefield had been quiet enough before the infantry joined the fight, now it was quite clear that the Nazgûl was proving too much for Gondor’s soldiers and for the Rohirrim who had joined them.

‘I think it’s the one that fell when Sigrid shot its mount,’ Merry informed them. It was a slightly breathless statement, as they had all begun running towards the Nazgûl seconds after they realised what was happening. Aragorn was aware of Brin and a number of Gondor’s other soldiers alongside them, having formed themselves into an honour guard of sorts. A quick look to his left showed that Denethor, too, had become aware of the problem and was holding a shouted discussion with two ents, both of whom pulled away from their fights in order to join him.

In theory, of course, the ents were meant to be at the edges of the battlefield still, ensuring the orcs did not flank Aragorn’s army and leave them fighting on two fronts. In practice, the battle had reached that inevitable point where it was more of a mess than anything else. The various armies were now a melee in the middle of the field and, for the most part, they were just trying to kill enough orcs as quickly as possible to end the fighting. Aragorn was consoled at realising that a large group of Lord Celeborn’s elves were clustered at the far left of the field, in the area where Elladan would have landed. Either way, he would soon be found.

Regrettably, the orcs appeared emboldened by the presence of the Nazgûl and were flocking to its side even as Aragorn and his allies approached. The movement left a curious hole in the lines of the armies, muddled though they had become, and it did not take long for Thengel and Ecthelion to realise it. Rohan’s horn sounded, calling Thengel’s Riders back to him as he rode off to the right of the field. Ecthelion rallied his soldiers in the centre and, with one quick glance to judge the position around the Nazgûl, pushed ahead towards the river where the orcish presence was still strongest.

By now Aragorn had reached the edge of the crowd around the Nazgûl, and he, Merry and Pippin had been joined by Bofur, Sigrid and Alnir.

‘Looked like this could be a pretty mess if we let it,’ Bofur called to him as they shoved their way through the assembled orcs. ‘Where do you want us?’

Aragorn had had little experience of dwarven weapons up to this point, particularly something like a mattock, but he was suddenly ashamed of the arguments he had originally made against Bofur joining the Fellowship. The dwarf wielded the heavy weapon as if it weighed nothing, but the force with which he brought it to bear left his opponents stunned, if not dead. Sigrid, having exchanged her bow for the short daggers which Aragorn was sure were of dwarven make, made quick work of those Bofur did not kill. Alnir, longsword in hand, kept a close watch on their backs and ensured nothing took them unawares.

Aragorn took a quick survey of the scene, noted the strength of the orcs surrounding his men and the Nazgûl’s focus on Thengel’s movements, and made a swift decision.

‘Can you keep it occupied?’ he asked them, gesturing at the Nazgûl.

‘With pleasure,’ Alnir responded, already dodging around the edge of the knot of fighting and making his way towards a gap which they could use to reach the Nazgûl at its centre. Aragorn spared only one more glance for them, then ran towards his men, certain that Merry and Pippin would be behind him. Though the Nazgûl might be the greatest threat on the field, if he did not thin out some of these orcs and give his men room to retreat any charge from Thengel would be as likely to kill soldiers of Gondor as it would orcs.

Besides, these men were his now. This was his kingdom, and these were his people.

He would not leave them to stand alone.

‘Good job we told them about the “stabbing through the face” method,’ Pippin commented. Then the young hobbit caught sight of a soldier surrounded, holding off four orcs single-handedly but failing fast, and he was gone at a run. Aragorn forced himself to remember how well he had trained the hobbits, and how well they had done so far in this battle, and turned his attention to another soldier who desperately needed their help.

***

Alnir did not have to look to know that Sigrid and Bofur were close behind him, attuned as he was to the sounds of their fighting and the rhythm of their steps. He had taken the lead by silent agreement, his weapon and his height making him the better match for the Nazgûl in a head-on battle, and he trusted that they were dealing with anything that might try to take him from behind. The Nazgûl had, when he first began making his way forward, been staring at the banner of Rohan, but it had soon realised that not all its enemies were distracted by the orcs and had turned to face him.

Right now this did not feel like one of the most sensible things he had ever done, and he sincerely hoped this thing did not have the same power behind it as the Witch-King, but Alnir was determined all the same.

The Nazgûl would not be leaving this field, even if it cost Alnir his life.

His first swing was parried easily, as he had expected. It was a test more than anything; of the creature’s speed, of its reach, of the force of its blows. When the Nazgûl returned the attack it quickly became apparent that it was lacking in none of these areas and Alnir brought his free hand up to the hilt of his sword, certain that he was going to need the extra strength. For some long moments they danced together in the centre of a ring of orcs, whose attention had been caught by the spectacle of a mere mortal engaging their Master’s lieutenant. Oddly, to Alnir’s mind, none of the creatures attacked him, though if they all moved in he would be lost in seconds.

Perhaps it was an unspoken command from the Nazgûl, that he would finish the fight alone. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the men of Gondor were being joined by allies from across the field and that the orcs had their own lives to protect.

In either case it was a blessing for Alnir, who was finding the Nazgûl just as much of a challenge as he had expected.

Over the pounding of his heart and the great breaths he was pulling in, Alnir could hear Bofur and Sigrid caught up in battle behind him. He dodged the Nazgûl’s swing, dropping down below it before pushing himself back to his feet, and lashed out with his own blade, driving the Nazgûl back a step.

He needed to get in a strong blow to its face, he knew that, and yet it was so much more difficult than it sounded. The Nazgûl moved constantly, barely a pause between one swing and the next, and each blow took all of Alnir’s concentration and skill to block. He was very much on the defensive here and he knew it. The few attacks of his own which made contact had little impact upon the Nazgûl, and Alnir had the infuriating feeling that he was being toyed with. The thought made him more determined and, though he hadn’t realised it was possible, he stepped up the speed of his attacks.

The Nazgûl appeared startled, as far as such a creature could ever seem startled when it had no face to make an expression, and Alnir felt a sense of satisfaction. Good. The Valar-cursed thing should be wary. Just because it was not facing a great hero of their Age did not mean it couldn’t die.

His next series of strikes drove the Nazgûl back several paces, towards a cluster of fighters who all dodged out of the way swiftly, breaking off their individual battles to avoid being trampled. Alnir wondered if the men of Gondor were winning now that their King had arrived to aid them, but he had no time to look. Instead, he pushed forward to take advantage of the Nazgûl’s momentary weakness.

Raising his sword high, Alnir slashed in front of the Nazgûl’s face several times, trying his hardest to keep its attention focused on his blade and away from the ground behind it. He needed to keep it on the wrong foot, could not afford for the Nazgûl to take control of this fight once again. The creature dodged his swings, leaning back out of the way, and Alnir pressed forward again. The Nazgûl tried to step back and tripped on one of a group of corpses fallen on the battlefield. In his mind Alnir murmured a prayer of apology to the men who had died here for the use he was making of their bodies, but he reassured himself that they would doubtless consider the indignity worth it if he could just kill this thing.

With the Nazgûl down, Alnir moved forward again and stabbed at the gap in its helmet, mindful of the tale Merry and Pippin had told him as they waited for the battle to begin. Infuriatingly the Nazgûl managed to block the blow and rolled away, coming back to its feet a short distance away. Alnir cursed aloud, knowing that he had missed the best chance he was likely to get.

Then, as the Nazgûl advanced on him and Alnir forced his aching arms to move into the guard position, his friends joined him once more.

Bofur had made his way along the edge of the ring that had formed around the fight and he appeared now close to the Nazgûl’s sword arm. Raising his mattock before the creature had registered his arrival, Bofur swung it not at the creature itself, but at its blade. The squared end struck the flat of its blade hard and, to the Nazgûl’s utter astonishment, the sword cracked.

Until the end of time Alnir would remember that moment, the complete stillness which seemed to fall as the Nazgûl eyed its blade with bafflement.

He would also remember, with utter clarity, the way that the Nazgûl spun around in shock as the Riders of Rohan, having decided that the field was now clear enough, charged at the body of orcs which were guarding its back.

Alnir heard a bellowed, ‘DOWN!’ from nearby, watched a number of Gondor's soldiers drop flat to the ground and stay there, and prayed that none of them would be trampled.

The Nazgûl, taken unawares, did not even have time to defend itself as Thengel galloped forward, raised his spear and threw it directly into the creature’s face.

Alnir stared in shocked delight as the robes and helmet it had worn collapsed in on themselves. At the same time Thengel’s expertly-trained horse came to a skidding halt, avoiding running Alnir over by only a few feet.

‘Well-fought,’ the King of Rohan told Alnir, the battle-light filling his eyes with glee. ‘I was not sure I would have time to reach you, but you held him far better than I had expected.’

Alnir decided there was a compliment in there, if a slightly back-handed one, and returned Thengel’s grin.

‘Lake-town always tries to oblige, my lord king.’

***

Taking a pause for breath some distance away, Aragorn looked across the battlefield and realised that they had, somehow, managed the impossible.

Outnumbered four-to-one, made up of a diverse group of fighters, some of whom were lacking any real experience, their army should have been doomed.

Instead, they were only an hour or so from victory. The orcs were scattered, they were mostly leaderless and now, even as Aragorn watched, they began to flee back towards the river.

The Battle of the Pelennor had been won.

******

 


	47. Foresight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One battle ends, but the next is not far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos on recent chapters! They are most useful when I'm lacking energy and need a boost to get my brain working again :D

Chapter Forty-Six: Foresight

The healing tents bustled with a frantic energy that Elladan remembered all too well. An almost continuous stream of soldiers were being brought in and the healers were fighting to keep up; each one he saw looking pale and tired after the hours of battle. Their patients, of course, were no better. Some minor injuries, as his own had proven to be, easily healed by Arwen’s prodigious ability, but too many that required all the skill gathered there.

Not just that of the elven healers either. As each new arrival was helped into the tent one of the more experienced healers, a woman of Gondor who reminded Elladan intensely of Halma, looked them over and then pointed to a corner of the tent. The worst cases to Grandfather’s healers, those with open wounds to the Rohirrim, who showed a speed and skill with the sewing of torn flesh which impressed Elladan greatly, and other injuries such as his own to those of Gondor, who had herbs and potions stocked and ready to be applied.

Elladan should, truly, have been dealt with by the latter group, but Arwen had taken one look at him and gone white as a sheet and no one had questioned her determination to deal with him herself. Elladan should have done, he knew, for there were many with greater need, but his head had been rather too fuzzy for argument.

Now he was both much improved and yet not safe to join the battlefield again. That had been made quite clear to him and he had not argued. He still felt a little like his brain was rattling inside his head.

Which left Elladan desperately searching for something he could do to help. He had little healing ability himself; his was the warrior’s life and it combined ill with the skills needed to heal. Still, he could not just sit here as these people suffered.

So, aching but determined, he pulled himself to his feet – stopping briefly to ensure he was going to _stay_ on his feet – and forced himself across the tent to the final group. To those whose time was over, and yet not quite done.

A number of them were too far gone to even notice his approach; the healers were using their supplies of pain relief generously where they could. One lad, however, was clearly still wide awake. Shaking, gasping with pain, looking up at Elladan with an anxious, distraught expression on his face. Elladan felt his heart break, even as he sank to the ground and took the boy’s hand.

‘I am here,’ he said softly, nearly brought to tears when even that small reassurance settled the lad noticeably. Elladan waited a few seconds, then caught his eye, hoping his own looked a little less hopeless than he felt.

‘I cannot heal you,’ he told his charge softly. The boy nodded as best he could, a tear sliding down his face. Elladan reached out and wiped it away as gently as he could.

‘I can make it hurt less,’ he added and the lad’s eyes filled with hope. Elladan wondered why he had not been given something for the pain before, then saw the black bruising about his throat, signs that something had done its best to crush his windpipe. Now a tear did escape and he ducked his head, embarrassed. The hand he held squeezed weakly.

Carefully, using what little power he had, Elladan pushed a wave of numbing relief through the young one, ignoring the shakiness that began to take him as he did so.

There were more important things in life than a little dizziness.

He was still there an hour and a half later, when Arwen came to tell him that the battle had been won.

***

‘What now?’ Pippin asked quietly, as they sat in Lady Galadriel’s tent at nightfall on the eve of their victory. The Lady herself was now awake, assuring them that she was unharmed and only tired, having used rather more energy than she normally had to expend. Pippin was sure it was true, and equally sure that Lord Celeborn would take some time to believe it, given how close he was staying. He did not seem like a person sure that his wife was well.

Then again, Pippin and Merry were practically in Elladan’s lap, so perhaps it was just that sort of evening. Pippin could hear celebrations going on outside, the relief of men who had survived to see another day, tempered only by memories of those who had not.

In here, things were decidedly more solemn.

‘We must continue to push them back,’ Denethor answered. His face bore a large slash down across one eye, which had been stitched shut but gave him a very dangerous appearance. Especially as the rumours of how he had received that cut began to circulate. The Steward’s son, according to the men who had fought under his command, had taken exception to an orc who was laying waste to groups of soldiers with a mace twice the size of Pippin. Denethor had forced his way into range, taken a wound that bled so copiously that his men thought he was bleeding to death there and then, and had completely ignored the gash in order to take the orc in question apart piece by piece. He had then continued to ignore his injury for the rest of the battle, leading the charge to Osgiliath with a roar on his lips and taking down more than his fair share of startled orcs in the process. Pippin had already heard some of the men begin to murmur about ‘invincibility’.

Of course, he had also heard Strider mutter something despairing about ‘stewards who turn out to be berserkers if you leave them unattended’. So it seemed not everyone was completely overawed by Denethor’s performance in the battle.

‘We have done all we can for the wounded tonight,’ Arwen added, reinforcing what they all knew. It was only that knowledge and her Grandmother’s presence in this tent which had drawn Arwen out to join them. ‘By morning… nature will have run its course. We should be able to move them.’

‘Back to Minas Tirith?’ Merry asked from Elladan’s other side. His voice, like Pippin’s, was a little shaky. They were getting better at the fighting part (a lot better according to Strider, which was always nice to hear) but the aftermath still left them both feeling slightly off. Even now Sigrid and Bofur were entering the tent with bowls of food and presenting one each to him and Merry.

‘Eat, sweetheart,’ Sigrid said quietly to Pippin. ‘Your body needs the food even if you don’t think you want it.’ Remembering another friend telling him that not so long ago, Pippin took the food and started to force it down.

‘No, Minas Tirith would be too far,’ Arwen replied to Merry’s question. ‘If you are pushing forward then Osgiliath would be safe, would it not? Certainly the water supply would be helpful. Otherwise we will be riding down to the river three times a day anyway.’ This she aimed at Lord Celeborn, who appeared thoughtful.

‘Taking them towards the next battle does not seem like the best idea, Arwen,’ Elladan interjected. ‘The orcs were pulling back across the river but we do not know how far they have gone.’

‘We do, actually,’ Theoden said as he entered the tent. Having missed a charge or two in his efforts to get Elladan to safety, Theoden had been dispatched along with a small group of elves and Rangers to get the lay of the land ahead of them. ‘They have pulled right back from the river. The elves could see no sign of them anywhere on the opposite bank, but we did see the tail end of a Nazgûl’s mount disappearing over Minas Morgul.’

‘He has called them all back,’ Lady Galadriel opined steadily.

‘The army approaches from the north,’ Lord Celeborn concluded.

‘Then we will need to move to join them,’ Strider decided, awaiting agreement from Thengel and Celeborn before continuing. ‘If we leave some of the Rangers behind with the wounded at Osgiliath they can stand guard and ensure we have warning should anything change. I doubt it will though. Sauron has suffered a defeat here, he will not wish to suffer another. He will commit all of his forces to the Morannon.’

Pippin wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a good thing or not.

***

‘No, you cannot charge the gates single-handed,’ Nori said at Dís’ elbow, ducking the instinctive punch with all the aplomb of one who did so regularly.

‘You are an arse,’ Dís informed him sincerely. Nori laughed.

‘A useful and perceptive one, though,’ he responded. Then, more seriously, ‘Unless you can tell me honestly that you were not considering it.’

‘I was not _seriously_ considering it,’ Dís said. ‘That will have to be enough for you.’

‘Dís,’ Nori began gravely. She waved him off.

‘My lads are in there,’ she growled. ‘All three of them. My brother is in there. One of my dearest friends is in there. And that muck-eating, pathetic son of an orcish whore is in between us.’

‘Which is why, if he has any sense, he’s currently scared shitless,’ Dwalin commented as he came to join them. ‘Unfortunately until he opens those gates there’s bugger all we can do about it.’

‘A woman can dream,’ Dís argued, still staring fixedly at the peaks of Mordor. Dwalin wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and Nori slid one of his own around her waist on the other side.

‘We’ll get them back, lass,’ Dwalin rumbled in reassurance. ‘He isn’t keeping them.’

‘I know,’ she answered. Deep down, however, she wondered if she did.

It was so very dark ahead, and that darkness was so very strong.

***

‘My lord, the armies from Gondor and Rohan are almost here,’ Tauriel let Thranduil know as she approached. He looked up from the documents he and Balin had been perusing and raised one eyebrow in question. Tauriel, as he had hoped, laughed slightly.

‘Yes, my lord, and Lord Celeborn’s soldiers as well. You may torment him all you like very soon!’

‘You are the best of Captains, Tauriel, thank you,’ Thranduil responded happily. It was important to continue seeming happy and unconcerned, no matter how much he would like to join Dís in her assault on Sauron’s inner sanctum right this moment. Legolas would be fine, he reminded himself. As would the others. They were all great warriors.

Other than Bilbo.

But Thorin would take care of Bilbo.

‘Shall we?’ Thranduil asked Balin calmly.

‘Oh, I think so,’ Balin answered, beginning to scoop the parchment into a pile. Ori appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and waved him off, taking over even as Balin clasped his shoulder in thanks. Thranduil wondered idly how annoyed Fíli would be if Thranduil stole his prospective steward. Ori was so very efficient, and with a significantly sweeter temperament than Thranduil’s own Steward. The dispute with Fíli might almost be worth it.

Unless Kíli got involved as well, he concluded regretfully. The two of them together were a natural disaster which had no intention of waiting to happen. The Woodland Realm would never recover.

Their temporary headquarters, set up four days ago upon their arrival at the Morannon, was some distance from the gates themselves. As he, Elrond and Dwalin had approached at the head of their army they had watched carefully for any sign of activity on the other side of those gates, only to shortly come to conclusion that Sauron was not yet ready for them. There had not been a flicker.

Not even when Glorfindel had ridden up to the gates and shouted a truly foully-worded challenge questioning Sauron’s intelligence, sanity, power and general hygiene.

Glorfindel had been pouting for days.

It would have been more amusing if the situation had not left them worried about what, exactly, Sauron’s army _was_ doing inside Mordor.

Thranduil had heard Elrond echo his own prayer, namely that the Dark Lord was not combing his lands for signs of a hobbit and his companions.

Thankfully, the night before word had come from the south to explain what was keeping Mordor distracted. A battle at the Pelennor which Sauron’s forces had lost.

There had been quiet celebration in their camp as the word spread.

Now the army which had fought that battle came to join them, swelling their own numbers by almost half. Unlike Elrond, Thranduil held a sizeable army in the Woodland Realm, long used to having to fight to protect his kingdom. Erebor, too, kept a large standing army at Thorin’s insistence; Valar knew he had the gold to pay for it and the work that they had done in keeping the east clear of orcs was proof that the expense was worth every penny. Between them, and along with groups from Dale and Laketown, they had mustered just over 12,000 soldiers. Among the standards now approaching Thranduil could see the white swan of Dol Amroth, and knew that Angelimir’s arrival would have made up much of the strength that Aragorn had lost on the Pelennor.

It might yet prove insufficient for the task at hand, but they would have a damn good try regardless.

As the arriving army drew to a halt Thranduil waited patiently as protocol was followed, allowing the formal greetings to be made and the pretty words to be spoken. Thankfully there were not many, for they had all done this several times by now and were becoming quite adept at speeding the whole thing along.

The moment it was all taken care of the groups began to split into smaller factions. Elrond bore down upon Aragorn and his elder son with a purpose that had hapless elves leaping out of the way to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Thranduil wondered idly what had set the usually calm Lord of Imladris into such a fury. Elrond was followed by Elrohir, the younger twin all but throwing himself at his elder brother in his relief at being reunited, sharing none of his father’s anger.

Thranduil had his own mission, having spotted his remaining grandchildren (adoption was truly a wonderful thing, he had informed Thorin some years before, particularly when you were a king and no one was going to fight you on it) and deciding that now would be the perfect time to greet them.

Striding forward, he opened his arms and gathered a laughing Alnir and Sigrid to him with great relief, only seconds after Bard had released the two of them.

‘There you are,’ he said, just loud enough to be heard by certain uptight elven Lords, who were still watching him suspiciously even though he was behaving impeccably. ‘I hope you have kicked an appropriate number of people in your absence.’ Sigrid began to giggle. Alnir groaned.

‘He even kicked a Nazgûl just for you,’ Sigrid assured Thranduil with a wide smile.

‘Thank you, henig,’ Thranduil said to Alnir, who glared at him with mock ferocity. ‘I am honoured.’

‘I hate you both,’ Alnir insisted. Thranduil laughed, then let himself be serious for a moment.

‘I have worried about both of you,’ he said affectionately. ‘It is good to see you well.’

‘And you,’ Alnir answered for them both. ‘We’re sorry we could not bring him with us, but you know how he is.’

‘None better,’ Thranduil replied. ‘Legolas will go his own way, as he always has. As long as it brings him back eventually I can be patient.’ He tightened his hug for a moment, then let them go. They stepped back, and Sigrid’s hand reached out… only to be taken by Bofur. Thranduil felt his eyebrows shoot up.

‘Now, how long has that been going on?’ he murmured, eyeing Bofur with great interest, at exactly the same moment that Bard said, rather sharply, ‘ _Sigrid_?’ He was most satisfied to see the dwarf wince.

The innocent look which Sigrid gave her father did not noticeably diminish Bard’s look of suspicion, nor did the tightening of her grip of Bofur’s hand.

‘Sigrid, Bofur, can I take it that we need to talk?’ Bard questioned in a voice that was almost a growl. Thranduil saw Sigrid’s expression turn to resignation and wondered how much of this reaction she had been expecting. Poor girl. Perhaps he would not interfere after all.

‘Oh, I think any number of people will wish to talk to Bofur in the next little while,’ Dís added, her expression positively evil. Bofur swallowed, then looked up at Sigrid with a wry twist of his lips.

‘Perhaps we ought to have done the wedding bit on the way, love,’ he said dryly. ‘At this rate I’m not sure I’m going to make it that far.’

‘Nonsense,’ and that was Dori, sounding for all the world as if he was scolding a class full of apprentice tailors. ‘I cannot speak for Bard, obviously, but I cannot see any need for the rest of us to form some sort of bizarre queue. Bofur will, of course, behave himself impeccably and make our lass very happy. As she will him, I am sure. Should he revert to his previous display of idiocy and further intervention be required,’ Thranduil filed that away for future consideration - it certainly sounded as if Dori was less than surprised by this turn of events, ‘then I will hang him from one of his mining pulleys by his beard and leave him there for a few days. Then I will hand him back to Sigrid so that she may deal with him. I can see no reason to cause a fuss before that point, unless anyone disagrees?’

Silence reigned for several breaths.

‘I think we can all bow to your far greater skill with creative threats, Brother,’ Nori said at last.

Bard’s fierce glare made it clear that this concession applied only to the extended family, but Thranduil doubted Dori had expected anything else. A man was entitled to deal with his daughter’s prospective suitor however he sought fit, after all. It almost made Thranduil wish he had a daughter of his own.

Then Thranduil made the mistake of catching Celeborn’s eye and nearly collapsed into hysterical laughter at the merriment hidden in the elder elf’s expression as he looked at a certain grey-haired dwarf. They always had underestimated Dori’s violent streak, hadn’t they?

‘Then that is settled,’ Dori pronounced. ‘Now we had best work out how we are going to prise Sauron out of his lands.’

***

The Morannon was quiet that night. Not silent, for there were too many reunions taking place to make it so, but without the restless energy of those awaiting a battle the next day. The Rangers Aragorn had dispatched into Ithilien reported that Sauron called not only his orcs to him, but also soldiers from among the Southrons. What bitterness existed in those lands that could make them obey the call of a monster in order to attack their northern neighbours, Dís could not imagine. It was a sad thought, and Dís wondered how busy the Harad Road was this night, how many men marched to their deaths for a Lord who would abandon them without a second thought. They would march unaccosted; so the King of Gondor had ordered. There would be time enough for battle when the gates opened. And until Sauron’s army was in place, no doubt they would be staying firmly shut.

‘I wonder where they are,’ Tauriel murmured into the quiet. She sat with Dís and Sigrid at their own small campfire, their gazes all directed the same way. They had begun the evening as part of a large group, all of the family gathered together as they sought to welcome one another, but one by one the others had dropped away, returning to their tents to sleep. Now it was only the three of them, though Bain slept peacefully not five feet from his sister, one hand holding her own.

They were so close, the children of Bard of Dale. Dís had watched Bain on their journey and knew that he suffered the absence of his sister almost as badly as Fíli and Kíli suffered when they were parted. It was good to see them together again. In fact, it was good simply to see them. Dís had missed them all, especially after years of trying to give Sigrid all the care she should have had from her mother. Bard was a wonderful father, and the Company were hardly reluctant to lavish affection on all the children, but Dís had always felt that Sigrid and Tilda were as close to daughters as she would ever have.

Tauriel was far too old to be any dwarf’s daughter, but she had been a good friend in the years since they had met, another person to understand the frustrations of trying to make stubborn kings and princes see sense and prevent them from getting too caught up in their own wondrousness. It was a hard job, but they did it well.

This night Dís needed those ties more than she ever had.

‘In there somewhere,’ Sigrid answered Tauriel, equally softly. ‘So those two young Rangers said. They made it that far.’

‘With so far still to go,’ Tauriel sighed. ‘Valar but this is easier when I am there to guard them. At least then I know what the dangers are, instead of imagining them over and over for hours on end.’

‘I will not say it gets easier,’ Dís told her, ‘but you do get used to it. I can only be thankful that this time I do not feel obliged to remain behind and rule.’

‘Balin always has been clever,’ Sigrid stated. ‘They’ll need you when we get them out. They’ll need to know they’re home, even if Erebor is still far away.’

‘As long as they do get out,’ Dís replied, then winced. ‘Ignore me, dear one. I am edgy tonight and I say things I do not mean.’

‘No,’ Sigrid countered, ‘you say things you _wish_ you did not mean.’

Dís huffed a laugh and shook her head. ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded.

‘Is it because there will be battle?’ Tauriel asked. Dís thought about this carefully. Certainly it had been long since she had seen true battle, though she had fought in skirmishes over the years and trained almost every day. It did not feel like battle-fear though. It was not panic, more a sense of foreboding. As if something was coming that she would not be able to stop and the very idea led to despair.

Then they all flinched as a winged figure plunged down from above, though it came nowhere near low enough to touch them before flapping away. A shrieking cry startled all those around them; Bain shot up with a dagger in hand, eyes still blurry with sleep, and only Sigrid’s quick reassurance prevented him from attacking Dwalin as he approached.

‘You saw that?’ Dwalin asked Dís sharply.

‘I _felt_ it,’ Dís growled furiously. ‘I ought to have known, damnit! Foul things spreading their poison everywhere they go.’

‘None of us recognised it, my Lady,’ Ori said as he arrived on Dwalin’s heels. ‘We all thought it was just knowing what’s coming.’

‘The Witch-King,’ Glorfindel confirmed, walking up with Elrond at his side. ‘He will not return tonight, but I imagine he wished to see what he was up against.’

‘We are not the only ones who are fearful, then, that is for certain,’ Bain added. When they all turned to look at him he continued. ‘Sauron did not send the Witch-King of Angmar to try and unsettle us because he is expecting an easy battle.’

‘The Witch-King’s the one with the prophecy, isn’t he?’ Ori asked Glorfindel. ‘The prophecy you made.’

‘More the prophecy I passed along, young one,’ Glorfindel told him. ‘Terribly valuable it was too. I cannot imagine how we ever got along before we received the helpful advice that no man could kill that horror.’

‘You always have been bitter about that one,’ Elrond chuckled.

‘Where is the useful counsel?’ Glorfindel demanded, indignation rising on cue. ‘What about “Glorfindel, tie your hair up before you go into battle”? Of what earthly use is “by the way, you cannot kill that thing”?’

Dís had begun to suspect that Glorfindel’s dramatics were meant to break some of the tension, and she was even more sure when she saw him wink subtly at Elrond, who was shaking his head with what appeared to be despair. Certainly some of the horror of the Nazgûl’s presence had begun to fade from her own mind in the face of Glorfindel’s silliness. The others seemed to agree. Soon after the group began to break up again, all returning to bed, and Dís decided that she really ought to join them.

She was stopped by Tauriel’s hand on her arm. The elven Captain also gestured to Sigrid, who moved to join them.

‘No man can kill him,’ Tauriel said almost silently, watching them closely. ‘That could mean one of two things.’

There was a short pause, then, ‘Either it can’t be one of my race,’ Sigrid understood, eyes widening, ‘or….’

‘Or it must be one of our sex,’ Dís finished for her. She could feel herself standing taller just at the realisation of what Tauriel was suggesting. A smile spread across her face, matched by those of the women beside her.

‘Do you know, my dears,’ Dís said firmly, ‘I do believe we have an appointment with the Witch-King once this battle begins.’

‘Then we had best make sure we keep it,’ Sigrid replied. ‘We cannot be rude, after all.’

Tauriel only grinned.

******

 

 


	48. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle commences at the Morannon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit later than I meant it to be, but it took me a while to make sure I had it the way that I wanted it. Especially after all the lovely comments on the last chapter, for which I thank you all :D I hope the wait has been worth it!

Chapter Forty-Seven: Gravity

It took Sauron two more days, following the Witch-King’s foray into the opposition camp, to finally open the Gate of Mordor. In that time the assorted armies waited impatiently, and those whose loved ones were somewhere in Mordor even more so. The longer they waited the more flippant Thranduil become, the more Dís growled, the harder Dwalin pushed his soldiers in training.

Nori finally put a stop to the latter with a gentle, if sarcastic, reminder that their army could not defeat Sauron’s forces if Dwalin had run them into the ground beforehand.

Watching them all now, on the dawn of the third day, Elrohir felt nothing but sympathy for them. So recently reunited with his brother, he could remember all too well the helpless frustration of wishing you could banish the miles separating you from those you loved. Even worse, the fury of knowing that they were facing the great dangers and deeds you would never, in any other circumstances, have allowed them to confront alone.

‘There is nothing worse than knowing there is nothing you can do,’ Elladan said, echoing Elrohir’s thoughts as he generally did. Though, no matter Arwen’s opinion on the matter, sharing a mind-link and sharing a mind were not actually the same thing.

‘There will be,’ Elrohir responded. ‘We can all hear the army gathering now. The Gate will open soon. We can make sure they have time. That is the most important thing.’

‘For us,’ Elladan agreed. ‘I doubt Thranduil would agree.’

‘I think you underestimate him,’ their father added as he joined them. ‘He is quite the most provoking person I have come across, excepting Glorfindel, but he understands necessity quite as well as you do.’

‘There is a difference between understanding it and accepting it,’ Elrohir pointed out.

‘True enough,’ was Father’s concession. He moved away, returning to stand with Glorfindel some feet away. Elladan and Elrohir were next to Merry and Pippin; the two hobbits were now virtually inseparable from Elrohir’s brothers and he was beginning to wonder if there would be another hard conversation with the Brandybucks and the Tooks when this was all over.

Perhaps he was borrowing trouble, but Merry and Pippin certainly did not seem to be planning on going home once this was over.

‘I am beginning to feel as if I have done nothing but this for weeks, even though I know that is ridiculous,’ Elladan told them. Elrohir leaned into his side instinctively at the sad note in his brother’s voice. ‘Standing, ready, waiting for the fight to begin. The only thing worse is afterwards.’

Elrohir knew he was talking about their losses. About finding out how many had died, how many injuries had changed lives forever. He leaned against Elladan harder, pushing down the irritating voice telling him that he should have been with his brothers when they went into battle. That, if he had, the end result might have been different.

Hindsight helped very little at times like this, and wishing would not make it true.

Rather than focusing on what could not be changed, Elrohir instead looked around to assess their current position.

At the centre of all the disparate forces gathered were those of Gondor and of Erebor, and at their head the smaller army of Rivendell. Deprived of a satisfactory response from Sauron initially, Glorfindel had firmly insisted that he _would_ be leading the charge against Mordor and that if Elrond did not agree with him then he was quite happy to lead a charge of one. Father, not being a fool, had organised things so that Glorfindel would at least be serving as a good example when he inevitably tried to fight his way through the Black Gate. Dwalin, Balin and Dís had ranged the army of Erebor behind them and slightly to the right, and Aragorn, Ecthelion and Denethor had taken Gondor towards the left. Alnir stood with Lake-town’s 200-strong infantry, joining Aragorn’s troops for the battle.

Not that Alnir seemed particularly happy with his position. Elladan had nudged Elrohir’s side earlier and gestured towards the Lake-town contingent, where Alnir had been having a rather fervent argument with his eldest brother, whilst glancing frequently at Dale’s archers as they arrayed themselves a good distance away, in front of the cavalry of Rohan and to the left of the Black Gate.

‘Eric keeps reminding him that he is not an archer,’ Elladan had murmured quietly in Elrohir’s ear. ‘Alnir keeps reminding Eric that he’s been perfectly content to let Alnir act as a citizen of Dale or the Woodland Realm up to now and he sees no reason why that should have to change.’

‘I think the argument is about to be resolved for them,’ Elrohir had replied, eyeing the approaching Captain of Erebor. Dwalin had grabbed both men, pulled them to one side and made three short, sharp statements that Elrohir could not make out.

Alnir had remained with the infantry. He continued to look entirely unimpressed whenever Elrohir glanced his way.

Dale’s archers did not stand alone, joined by Thranduil’s, ready to recreate the archers’ manoeuvre from the Pelennor when the battle commenced. On the opposite side Grandfather had borrowed the men of Morthond once more (after he and Elladan had held a rather bemusing conversation about elvish versus Westron) and was prepared to do the same. Thengel led one group of Rohirrim, Théoden and his mentor another.

They were as prepared as they were ever going to be.

Apparently so was Sauron, finally.

The Black Gate began to open, the waiting armies tensed, and one figure rode out.

‘That is… is that thing just a really large mouth?’ Merry asked incredulously. Pippin snorted.

‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised,’ he told his cousin with a jaded air. ‘What have we learnt on this journey except that everything Sauron rules is disgusting and really oddly put together?’

‘I had hoped you would acquire a slightly wider education,’ Father told Pippin dryly, as their people tried to suppress chuckles. Pippin shrugged, eyes firmly on the approaching horror.

‘Who comes to assault my Master’s lands?’ the black-cloaked, helmeted herald called. ‘What reason can you have for threatening our peace?’

Elrohir watched Glorfindel open his mouth for a second, then close it with a slightly perplexed look before finally responding.

‘I do not know how well-informed your Master keeps you of his actions, pawn,’ he shouted back, ‘but there was an invasion of Gondor some days ago. A large invasion. Strangely enough, the King of Gondor does not take such aggression lightly.’

‘Gondor has no King,’ the Mouth of Sauron responded. Glorfindel laughed. Gandalf’s response was rather more to the point.

‘Aragorn, come forth!’ he commanded. Estel’s expression was resigned, before he successfully hid it behind a more regal mask.

‘Isildur’s heir comes to demand satisfaction of Sauron,’ Gandalf continued, full-voiced. ‘Let your Master march out and meet him.’

Elrohir was certain he was not imagining the glare in Estel’s eyes as he looked at Gandalf in response to this challenge.

‘Try organising your own duels, oh great wizard,’ Elladan muttered irritably next to Elrohir, trying his best to burn a hole in Gandalf’s white cloak with his eyes. ‘Leave my little brother out of it.’

‘Elladan,’ Father responded warningly and Elladan subsided.

‘Let his army march out and meet us all,’ Glorfindel added, voice echoing across the field. ‘The forces of the Valar stand ready. We tire of your evil marring our world. We tire of your minions killing our friends and harming our kingdoms. Let this be the end of it all, Sauron. Face the consequences of your choices at last!’

‘Sauron the Great does not pander to the whims of minor elven Lords,’ the Mouth retorted.

For a moment the battlefield seemed to still, even the breeze fading to nothing. Elrohir met Elladan’s eyes and smirked. The Mouth was going to regret that one.

He did.

Glorfindel dropped the walls he usually raised around his power, dropped them further than Elrohir had ever witnessed, and in the space of a breath he glowed so brightly he was utterly blinding.

‘I have waited thousands upon thousands of years for this,’ Elrohir heard Glorfindel say quietly. ‘Now let it come upon me.’

With that, he charged forward. Momentary paralysis seemed to have taken hold of the Mouth. Then he realised just how foolish he had been and tried to flee. The horse he rode had no more desire to confront Glorfindel than he did, wheeling about to try and escape. As it charged towards the Black Gate once more, however, it came face to face with another obstacle.

Thranduil, looking as calm and collected as if he was strolling through the Woodland Realm on a summer’s day, stood blocking the Mouth’s escape. His sword was held by his side, entirely relaxed, and he was smiling.

Elrohir did not hear what he said, could not, but he heard the tale many a time in years to come.

‘No,’ Thranduil told the Mouth. ‘I think not.’

The Mouth tried to turn his mount to the side, but Thranduil moved too quickly for him. Two flicks of his sword had the beast skidding to a halt, and by now Glorfindel had caught up with them. He leapt into the air, as he so often did, and landed upon the horse’s rump. Then, nonchalantly, he grabbed the Mouth by the scruff of his neck and threw him over the horse’s head, before flipping forward to dismount himself.

‘Do you wish to?’ legend would say he asked Thranduil. ‘Or shall I?’

‘Go ahead, my friend,’ was Thranduil’s response. ‘There will be more than enough to go round.’

‘Very well.’

Elrohir saw the Mouth scramble to his feet, drawing his sword, and wondered if he realised how hopelessly he was outmatched. If he did not he soon found out. He exchanged a few faltering blows with Glorfindel, stumbled as a return blow knocked him off balance, and then, quite suddenly, found himself without a head.

‘A disappointing warm-up, I must say,’ Glorfindel told Thranduil in a tone of great sadness. ‘I hope the rest do not keep us waiting too long.’

***

Glorfindel’s wish was to be granted, which Thranduil could only consider to be typical. The Valar did have their favourites and the world always seemed to oblige those favourites more easily than it did the rest of Arda.

Which just made it depressing that one of those they listened to was Glorfindel, who wished for things like long, challenging battles. _Thranduil_ would have had the sense to wish that Sauron would find his army outnumbered, or that a great gaping pit would open and swallow half of it whole.

And his fellow elves wondered why Thranduil had become so fond of dwarves in recent years. At least dwarves could be relied upon to be practical.

Not that it mattered now. There was no damming the flow of this orcish flood once it been unleashed, except by draining it away bit by bit. The front edge was already marching out, as wide as the Gate itself, and Thranduil could see the rest of Sauron’s army stretching back towards the horizon in a thick, black mass. Giant figures amidst the morass could only be trolls, Thranduil thought, not something he had ever wished to deal with again; Eru but they stank. Even more worrying, the Easterlings had clearly brought Mûmakil with them. The beasts were marching peacefully enough for now, but they need only become frightened and being trampled would become a distinct possibility.

Even the knowledge that the Mûmakil would likely take out a good number of the enemy in such a situation was no great comfort.

Thranduil considered, for a moment, commanding Tauriel to deal with as many as she could, then dismissed the thought. His Captain was up to something, that much he did know, even if he had not yet worked out what it was. She would likely be distracted even if he gave her the order.

One could not afford to be distracted when facing such things.

No, the Mûmakil would have to be dealt with a different way. Luckily Thranduil already had another plan in mind.

‘Far be it from me to advocate retreat,’ Glorfindel said sharply and suddenly in Thranduil’s ear, ‘but I do think we had best move to a more optimal position, mellon-nin. It is very hard to charge at an army when they are standing on top of you.’

Drawn back to the present situation, Thranduil realised that Glorfindel was correct. They were rather out on a limb and far closer to the orcs than they currently needed to be. Even as he came to the realisation he heard Théoden shouting to them to fall back. Thranduil ran back towards his own army and that of Rohan, laughing silently to himself as Théoden responded to the anxious shifting in his own ranks with, ‘No, don’t _you_ fall back. You stay where you are.’

The nervousness of the Rohirrim should not have been amusing, but people did keep telling Thranduil he had a perverse sense of humour.

***

As the orcs formed up before them, lines and lines of dirty spears that made him want to bash heads together and give shouted lectures on proper weapon-care, Dwalin felt his heart and stomach settle. Another battle, and finally a chance to do something to truly help his lost lads and his best friend. With Balin and Dís at his side, and the rest of the Company at his back, Dwalin felt entirely at home.

He hadn’t seen this many trolls since Moria. It would make the battle fun.

‘Take on a single troll without checking I am with you first and I will help Nori tattoo “idiot” upon your forehead,’ Balin promised him lowly. Dwalin grinned.

‘Only if you can hold me down,’ he pointed out, before catching sight of Balin’s answering grin and deciding he’d been a bit too cocky.

Balin didn’t need to be as strong as Dwalin was. He was sneaky, and that made him far more dangerous.

‘Fine, just make sure you stay with me,’ Dwalin ordered his brother. Balin nodded.

‘I will,’ he agreed. ‘Nori’s staying with Dís. I don’t trust whatever she and Tauriel are cooking up. They’ve been sharing conspiratorial looks for days.’ Dwalin snorted.

‘Good luck to Nori.’

The orcs had formed up as well as they were going to by now, shoddy and disheartening as their pathetic attempts were. They set up a racket which made the singing of Erebor’s army sound positively musical, the same old tactic Dwalin had seen orcs use year upon year to try and instil fear in their enemy. Spears pounded on the ground, vambraces clattered against breastplates, shields rattled against pommels and a noise like a goose honking broke through in a number of places as the orcs shouted wordlessly. Dwalin wondered if his fellow captains were as proud as he was to see their men staring back, for the most part, with expressions of boredom upon their faces.

Then, once the din had stopped, he gave the signal.

Orcs might have evil on their side, but nothing drowned out a dwarf.

‘BARUK KHAZÂD,’ Erebor’s army roared as one. ‘KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU!’

Dwalin was amused to hear a great many of the elves of Rivendell join in, shouting their own battle-cries in defiance. They were not as well-orchestrated, but sometimes it really was the thought that counted.

And the volume.

The orcs, as Dwalin had intended, seemed struck dumb by the display of confidence. In the space of time it took them to realise that they had not actually scared their foes senseless, Dwalin heard other cries go up.

‘Leithio i philinn!’

‘Fire!’

The battle was joined.

***

The armies of the Valar, as Glorfindel had so grandly named them, had rather more archers to their name this time than they had possessed on the Pelennor. Now Sigrid was part of the ranks of Dale, a thousand-strong in their own right and with the might of the Woodland Realm bracketing them. She fired her first arrow even as she dropped down to one knee to allow those behind her to take their shots and only when six ranks of archers had taken their turn did Sigrid come to her feet again, drawing her second arrow and letting it fly. Lines of orcs were falling as planned, though the shields most of them held did make it harder to get a good shot in. Even so, Sigrid was proud of her men and knew Father and Bain felt the same, could hear them calling encouragement down the line as she was herself.

‘Good, that’s it, hold steady,’ she shouted, making sure to catch the eye of one of their oldest soldiers. Everyone knew that the tremors in Einur’s hands were the reason he had retired from the army over a year ago now, and yet when his Lord had called he had answered. His experience steadied the others, and if his arrows were not quite as true as they could be, still he played his part in full. He winked at her now, as they sank to the ground once more, and Sigrid grinned in return.

Sigrid felt a tap on her shoulder some moments later, knew that their second wave was done, and heard her father’s whistle for the men to break to either side. Echoing the sound Sigrid followed the order, keeping one eye on the orcs all the time. Partway through the second wave they had received orders of their own and now they were advancing rather more quickly than she cared for. Quickly enough that she wasn’t sure she was going to make it out of the way in time if the men in front of her did not hurry, and while the feeling rising inside of her was _not_ panic, it bore a close enough resemblance to be panic’s kin.

‘For the Valar’s sake, _run_ ,’ she shouted to those ahead of her, relieved when they finally sped up.

It was not the orcs that were the problem. It was the possibility of being caught in Rohan’s charge that was the problem.

As it was they made it out of the way in time, but only because the edges of the Rohirrim stayed behind when the centre charged, allowing the archers past before they entered the fight. It left the charge on this side of the field as an unintentional arrow, blunting the impact of the manoeuvre somewhat, and Sigrid was furious that they had been responsible for mucking everything up.

‘When we give the signal for a retreat,’ she called to her men as they prepared for the next stage of the battle, ‘you do not trot along like a dog following the butcher’s cart. If I tell you to run then you damn well _run_!’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Sorry, Captain.’

‘Let us hope that the men of Rohan are not too wroth at our mistake,’ Bain shouted, and a number of their soldiers shifted sheepishly. Sigrid said nothing more. The heir to the Lordship had spoken, there was no need to belabour the point.

***

The very last thing Elladan expected to feel while he was waiting for the infantry’s turn to join this final battle was the mental equivalent of a knock on the front door. A knock that was somehow polite and cheeky at the same time, a swift rap-tap-tap to grab his attention. He considered, then immediately discarded, the thought that this might be some trick of Sauron’s. Sauron was not a subtle being. If he wanted access to someone’s mind he would doubtless take a battering ram to it.

‘Yes?’ he questioned silently as he allowed a small opening in the location of that mental knock.

‘Elladan, I have a challenge for you and Elrohir,’ Thranduil said with an easy tone. ‘Normally I would send Legolas, but as I am currently short of a son I do believe you will have to do.’

‘And you think that by suggesting I could not complete the task as well as Legolas you will encourage me to accept immediately,’ Elladan answered wryly. ‘Despite general appearances, Thranduil, this quest has left me wiser than before. Challenge first, then you will have my answer.’

There was a brief pause which confused Elladan greatly until he realised that Thranduil must be amongst the retreating archers he could see on the left of the field. When Thranduil’s voice returned it sounded positively gleeful.

‘There are a large number of Mûmakil at the rear of this army,’ Thranduil informed him. ‘A number that could do a disproportionate amount of damage if they get free. Deal with them.’

‘Father will murder us both,’ Elladan said after a second, well aware that this was not a refusal. ‘Is there a particular reason you cannot do this yourself?’

‘Yes,’ Thranduil said bluntly, ‘there is. There are Nazgûl somewhere in Mordor, Elladan, and we must very much hope they come out at some point, if things are to go well for Bilbo and the others. When they arrive, I will be busy. Any other objections?’

Elladan could not think of any. Well, none that mattered as much as keeping other people alive.

‘Very well,’ he said resignedly. ‘We are, as our dear friends would say, at your service.’

‘Thank you,’ came the sincere response, then Thranduil was gone.

Oh, this was going to go down well, Elladan thought as he pulled his brother closer so he could whisper in his ear.

About as well as stabling a foal in one of the lesser-used libraries when he was 103.

Eternity might not be worth living.

***

Their tactics for this battle would have to be slightly different than before, Celeborn and his fellows had decided over the preceding days of watchfulness. This was not the Pelennor Fields, wide open and with plenty of space to retreat and reform the ranks. The orcs had stopped not far in front of the gate and had made it clear that they had no intention of going any further. Rocky peaks rose up on either side of the battleground that had been forced upon them, and it left little room for manoeuvre.

Thus, when the Rohirrim retreated for a second charge it would be behind the infantry, not behind their archers. So, rather than awaiting the chance to fire a second volley, Celeborn watched for the right moment to lead his forces into the heart of the battle.

For now, that meant bearing witness to the ride of the Rohirrim crashing into the flanks of the orcish army like an unstoppable avalanche. The orcs had tried to ready themselves, turning spears and shields sidewards to meet the rush, but it availed them little as they were shoved forward by the power of the horses, tripping over one another even as they tried to bring horse or rider down. Orcish spears were wielded to effect, but so were the spears and swords of the Rohirrim. Théngel-King, Celeborn noticed, was rather fond of slamming his shield into the faces of his opponents prior to running them through. It was an unsurprisingly effective tactic.

After several minutes of close-quarters fighting, which made up in slaughter what it lacked in finesse, the Rohirrim pulled away and galloped down either side of the forces of Gondor and Erebor. Now it was his turn again, and Celeborn allowed himself a smile.

Flipping his bow back up into his hands, he set off at a run, calling the command to charge to his soldiers even as he did so. Nocking an arrow, Celeborn fired as soon as he was in range of an enemy, then again, and again, and again. Around him his archers did the same, as did those of Morthond, picking off any orc that had separated from the main mass of the army. A shield wall might prove a problem even to an archer of Lothlórien, but no lone shield was going to stop its Lord from killing his target. When one hopeful orc charged at him, shield raised to block its entire upper body in the belief this made it safe, Celeborn spun sideways, firing even as he turned and shot it in the back.

Then it was not only orcs that were willing to try their luck. A troll, average in size for its kind but sharing the common features of brute strength and a distinct lack of wits, raised its club and swung a wide arc in Celeborn’s direction.

The passage of years had provided Celeborn with a wealth of scenarios for battle, and the experience to sort through them quickly and efficiently even as he jumped out of range. Giving a sharp nod, a subconscious reflection of the decision made, Celeborn ran forward, jumping for the creature’s club. He thoroughly enjoyed its look of surprise when, rather than being sent flying through the air by impact, Celeborn instead used the club as a base to begin his climb. He scaled the troll’s arm easily enough, as it stood gazing gormlessly at its own hand as if it had somehow been betrayed, and landed on the shoulder. Drawing his sword, Celeborn calmly slashed at the troll’s neck, slicing it open before leaping backwards to avoid the spray of blood.

Galadriel did so hate it when he returned from battle with blood clotted in his hair.

He refused to acknowledge the small part of his mind, far in the back, which gloated that Glorfindel was not the only one who could kill with a flourish when the situation called for it.

***

‘Deal with them,’ Elladan muttered to himself bitterly, though not out loud. No need to alert Father to what he was planning. ‘ _Deal with them_ ; as if they are a few wild cats nesting in an empty room and not a group of _Mûmakil_ behind a cursed _army_. Shall I just stroll up to the front rank of orcs and ask them to kindly ask their fellows to move aside so that I can wander on through to reach the Easterlings? And then perhaps I should explain to the Easterlings that the King of the Woodland Realm has taken exception to their large, nearly indestructible, pets and it would be very useful if they could move out of the way so that I can get on with killing them.’

‘ _We_ can get on with killing them, and do stop whining, Brother,’ Elrohir told him sharply. ‘Thranduil did not set us a schedule. There is no earthly reason why we cannot wait for the Easterlings to come forth before we get started. It is not as if there are a shortage of enemies right… here.’

The pause came as Elrohir grabbed a fallen orc’s sword, having tired of the trio of orcs currently taking turns trying to kill him, and, now wielding a weapon in either hand, slashed the blades outwards. The central orc ducked in time, but the two on either side collapsed as gaping wounds appeared on their bodies. Elrohir drew his hand back and threw the second sword, piercing the central orc’s chest and leaving it gasping for breath on the ground. It was not dead, but it soon would be.

Elladan allowed a mental pat of ‘well done’ to slide into Elrohir’s mind, smiling with contentment when Elrohir leaned into the touch. It was impossibly good to be with his twin once more.

The battle continued to rage around them as Elladan dealt with his own foe, exchanging a series of blows as he tried to identify its weakness. Rivendell had charged almost as soon as the Rohirrim retreated and Elladan and his companions had been amongst the first to slam into the front lines of the orcs. The first few moments had been the usual pushing and shoving, the struggle to determine who was going to break the other’s line, but this time made easier by the presence of the hobbits. While the orcs were distracted by Elladan and his elven friends, Merry and Pippin had slipped beneath their guard and swiftly opened a space by laying into the orcs with a will.

Elladan was certain he had heard the two of them setting up a count, but as it did not seem to bear much relation to the orcs they were killing or taking out of action, he had to confess to complete confusion about what it meant.

A minute or so into his fight with his current enemy, Elladan came to the conclusion that the orc wielded its sword with the left hand for a reason. Given a little incentive it would leave its right side entirely exposed and it took only a slight feint to encourage the orc to do exactly that. A gut wound taught it the error of its ways, or would have done, if the orcs had been likely to live.

Elladan took a moment to assess the battlefield, allowing Elrohir to guard his back as he did so, and realised that the two of them were in the wrong place. The dwarves of Erebor, by far the most numerous of their allies, had made a sizeable dent in the orcish forces on the right, which would make it far easier for Elladan and Elrohir to get through.

Now they just had to make it over there without their father noticing, and without Merry or Pippin deciding to join them. Though the hobbits were certainly improving their martial skills, Elladan still was not sure what they would be able to do against something as large as a Mûmak.

Had Thorin been there, of course, he would immediately have reminded Elladan that a hobbit had slain the dragon Smaug, by far a more impressive foe than a Mûmak.

Thorin was not there, however, so Elladan set his mind to a way of distracting the hobbits.

In the end, that proved rather easier than he had expected.

Catching Merry’s arm, Elladan leant down to speak in his ear. Just as he was about to begin he was forced to pause so that he could throw a small knife into the eye of an approaching orc. He really did not have time for interruptions right now. Raising an eyebrow at Elrohir he received a roll of his twin’s eyes in return, which Elladan took to mean, ‘please accept my sincere apologies, dearest and much-more-handsome brother, I will keep a better watch now’.

‘Merry, I need you and Pippin to go and find Estel for me,’ he told his hobbit-friend firmly. ‘Thranduil is convinced that the Nazgûl will be making an appearance at some point, and if they do then I want the two of you with him to help defend him.’

Merry gave him a look of suspicion, which Elladan was ready for. Neither Merry nor Pippin was stupid, even if Pippin was occasionally a little daft.

‘If you were really that worried you’d protect him yourself,’ Merry pointed out. Elladan gave a shrug of acknowledgement.

‘I am worried, but Elrohir and I need to be elsewhere,’ he said vaguely. Merry’s eyes slitted, then widened suddenly. Ducking around Elladan he took three swift steps forward and shoved his sword into the gut of an orc aiming its weapon at Pippin’s back.

Elladan caught Elrohir’s glance and sent across a fervent, ‘Truly, Brother?’

‘It’s a damned battle, Elladan,’ Elrohir snapped back. His sword whipped out, removing the arm of a nearby orc, then his elbow shot back and smashed into another’s nose. ‘If you wanted a cosy chat over tea you should have tried having it somewhere else!’

They were distracted from their argument by a shout from Merry.

‘Do not die!’ the hobbit ordered them both with utter seriousness. He was holding Pippin’s arm in a tight grip and Elladan realised that this was Merry’s permission to abandon the two to face the battle together.

‘Nor you,’ he called back. ‘I will be checking.’

‘I should hope so,’ Pippin shouted, with a mock glare. Then the hobbits turned and disappeared into the melee.

‘Bring them back to me,’ Elladan whispered, just in case the Valar were listening. ‘Bring them back whole.’

Then he grasped Elrohir’s arm, copying Merry’s gesture, glanced around to make sure Father was not watching, and ran towards the dwarves.

***

There was no surprise when Dís heard the cry of the Nazgûl this time. She had been expecting it, had been _anticipating_ it even. She and Sigrid and Tauriel had been waiting for the Nazgûl to appear as they went through the business of mining out the dross of the orcs one by one. It had felt inevitable.

Besides, their armies were clearly doing better than Sauron’s armies, and that was bound to cause him to throw a tantrum and send out his favourite henchmen.

Dís was pleased to note that the famed Nine were now a rather less impressive Four. The Witch-King was at their head, flying another of those horrendously ugly beasts Dís had glimpsed a few nights before, and he led them as they ducked low and swiped at the soldiers on the ground. Occasionally they caught an orc or an Easterling in their grip, which didn’t seem to bother them a great deal.

Within moments of the Nazgûl’s arrival, Thranduil turned his archers to trying to take their mounts down. Dís could see him hurtling towards the area they had clustered in, Tauriel at his heels. From various directions others came running; Elrond, Glorfindel, Celeborn. Most importantly for Dís, Sigrid (followed by Dori, Ori and Bofur), sprinting towards the Witch-King even as Dís herself began to move.

Behind her Dís heard Nori yelling a long series of expletives as he realised what, exactly, she was up to, but she didn’t have time to stop. The Witch-King had landed his beast in the middle of the Gondorian ranks, clearly looking for someone in particular.

Apparently word had got back that Gondor had a King again. Dís hadn’t thought Sauron would like that.

Lungs heaving, Dís reached the scene of the chaos just in time to hear the Witch-King issue a challenge.

‘Isildur thought himself good enough to face my Master,’ the former Lord of Angmar rasped icily. ‘He would have made himself ruler of all of Arda. Would you take the first step towards proving yourself just such a fool, Aragorn? Will you face me?’

Around them the battle had stopped. Dís saw Glorfindel take one look at the scene and then swerve away, turning his attention instead to the Nazgûl still in the air. With only a brief pause Lord Celeborn followed him. Elrond did not leave, and Dís did not blame him.

She wouldn’t leave her boys in a situation like this either.

Strangely, the person who seemed least bothered by the goings on was Aragorn himself. Reaching up, he touched the pendant that hung from his throat, smiling as he did so. Then he focused on the Witch-King once more.

‘No,’ he said calmly, ‘I will not. No man can kill you, they tell me. Why, then, should a man try, when he has such able seconds to stand in his place?’

Then, taking Dís very much by surprise, Aragorn turned to her and bowed deeply.

‘Would you, my lady?’ he asked in the same calm tone. ‘Gondor would owe Erebor a debt of gratitude.’

For a moment Dís did not reply. Then she found herself laughing.

‘No debt owing, lad,’ she assured him. ‘The sooner this filth is dealt with, the sooner we can all go home.’

Aragorn nodded, then pointedly turned away and set off after the nearest group of orcs. A better indication that the Nazgûl was not worth his time Dís could not have planned herself.

It wasn’t Dís who struck the first blow, however, which she felt was probably wise. There was no guarantee that the Witch-King would remain in place and allow them to try and kill him, not if he had another option. So she was more than relieved when Nori, without any fuss at all, snuck up behind the Fell-beast, grabbed the reins that the Witch-King used to control it, yanked its head down and stabbed it in the eye.

You could always count on Nori to take care of the necessities while you were distracted by the bigger picture.

He was soon joined by a number of the men of Gondor who, having been jolted out of their frozen state by the movement, used the opportunity of the beast’s blinded agony to chop at its head and neck, dodging its desperate attempts at self-defence.

Trusting that they had the situation under control, Dís decided it was time to ensure that the Witch-King felt she was worth his time.

‘Will you not face _me_ , underling?’ she called mockingly. ‘They tell me you had a kingdom once, though I doubt it was a very impressive one, looking at you now. Perhaps you would like to test the might of Angmar against that of Erebor. You would not like your Master to think you were scared to defend his lands, after all. I am certain he expects the possibility of your death to mean nothing in the face of his continued power.’

The Witch-King said nothing, staring at her in eerie silence, but he raised his mace after a moment and stepped forward. Dís moved to meet him, slinging her bow over her shoulder and drawing her axe and dagger. The axe was not her preferred weapon, but against an enemy so much taller it would serve her better than the dagger alone.

They joined battle twenty feet or more from the now-dead Fell-beast, Dís striking the first blow. She did not aim for any of the usual areas, well-aware that she was far from alone and that either Tauriel or Sigrid would be better suited for such blows. Instead she aimed for the monster’s knees.

In all her years of fighting, Dís had never known anything to be as effective on one leg as it was on two.

The first strike failed, caught on the metal of the Nazgûl’s greaves and clattering rather uselessly against them. Dís leapt back as the Witch-King swung the mace, the weapon thudding into the ground only a foot away from her. It was huge, the largest she had ever seen, and the spikes that covered it made her feel slightly sick just from looking. The Witch-King, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the size and weight. He lifted it easily out of the dirt and swung again, missing Dís by a hairs-breadth as she dodged sideways.

All in all, not the greatest start to the fight.

Thankfully Sigrid had arrived to join the battle, and not alone. Though Dís did not recognise it at the time, she later learned that the weapon her foster-daughter was wielding belong to Dori. It surprised Dís not at all to hear that he had handed it over without question. The Witch-King, thinking himself involved in single combat, was keeping only a cursory eye on his surroundings. He did not see Sigrid’s approach and so was taken by surprise when the chains of a flail suddenly wrapped around his wrist, the weighted ends crashing against his gauntlets and, Dís hoped, numbing his grip. Sigrid threw herself back with all her might and yanked the Witch-King off-balance, aborting the swing he had been making towards Dís’ head.

In the pause this created, Dís darted forwards and swung her axe again, this time making a dent in the greaves and hearing the Nazgûl issue a hiss of pain. She did not remain to try another blow, for the Witch-King recovered from the surprise quickly, hauling his mace back and flinging Sigrid in front of him. She hit the ground hard, rolling twice before struggling to her feet and shaking her head sharply. Presumably to clear the ringing in her ears.

Tauriel took that as her cue. Running in from behind she grabbed at the Witch-King’s neck, using the leverage to force her boots into his back and pull down. Wobbling rather comically, the Nazgûl bent backwards at the knees before overbalancing and falling. Tauriel tried to move out the way but didn’t quite make it and was caught beneath him. Dís hurried to help before the Witch-King could recover and turn on Tauriel. Swinging her axe at his upper body, she forced him to defend his face, making him let go of the mace to use his gauntlets as protection. After a few passes he threw himself to the side to get away, allowing Tauriel to rise to her feet.

Drawing a knife Tauriel joined the fight just as the Witch-King managed to stand again, slashing at his helmet and trying to get a blow in to his neck. She ducked and dodged as the Witch-King tried to get a grip on her, then faltered as he grabbed her arm and bent it almost backwards. Dís charged forward and caught him at the waist, while Dori apparently decided that not being able to kill the Witch-King didn’t mean he had to stand idly by. Wrapping his forearm around the arm gripping Tauriel, he squeezed harder and harder until Dís heard something snap and the Witch-King bellowed with pain and released his grip.

Now, with the Witch-King faltering, Sigrid moved forward once more, sword raised.

‘They will destroy everything you stand for,’ she told the leader of the Nazgûl solemnly, ‘but not before we destroy you.’

Then she stabbed forward, starting the chain reaction that other members of the Fellowship had described for them in detail. It was only when she shrieked, dropping her sword and clutching her arm with an expression of agony, that Dís realised this death would not be quite like the others.

***

Further away, another shriek rang out. The burning eye of Sauron had been watching the battle carefully and had seen the fall of his most loyal servant.

Once again, he knew both fury and despair.

Then he saw a flicker, just the smallest flicker, of a power he knew better than any other. Perhaps in other circumstances he might have dismissed it. Not this time.

This time he called what remained of his Nazgûl back to him.

He _would_ have his ring once more.

******


	49. Step By Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end.

Chapter Forty-Eight: Step By Step

Sigrid’s arm was burning like the molten heart of Mount Doom. The knowledge that they had killed the Witch-King had been a bubbling joy inside of her for all of a few seconds, before she realised that he might well have killed her in the process.

This wasn’t natural.

It couldn’t possibly be natural.

She had just killed a sorcerer of great renown and now her arm seemed to be turning black.

Even Khuzdul didn’t have expletives vile enough for such a situation.

Then her betrothed was there and Sigrid had to force herself to pay attention once more.

‘Lass, come now, we need to find Lord Elrond,’ Bofur was saying gently. ‘Tauriel’s gone to fetch him but the sooner we get to him the better.’

‘You need to go back to the battle,’ Sigrid tried to tell him, but it came out rather garbled, from a tongue that suddenly felt too thick for her mouth. Within seconds a flask of water was being pressed to her lips and Sigrid drank gratefully, only to find that the water did nothing to quench her thirst.

Everything was burning.

‘We need to get her to Elrond faster,’ Sigrid heard Dori say, worrying dripping from his voice. ‘Bofur, she is fading…’

Sigrid tried to make out the rest, but the buzzing noise in her ears had been building steadily and everything was muffled. She took two further, faltering steps and then she could no longer keep herself upright.

***

‘How many is that?’ Frodo asked Bilbo as they leaned back against a rocky slope to catch their breath. The latest orc had been the crafty sort and Frodo had come close to being strangled before Bilbo had managed to distract it by breaking its ribs.

Valar but he hated orcs.

‘How many we’ve killed or how many left?’ Bilbo asked in return. Frodo shrugged, indicating that either figure would do.

‘Nine dead,’ Bilbo answered, after a brief mental count. ‘Eleven left.’

‘Eleven’s not so bad,’ Frodo sighed, pushing himself upright as he brought their break to an end. ‘Any other time we’d send Legolas and Fíli off on their own if it was only eleven.’

‘I do not think Fíli will be sending anyone anywhere on their own for a while, lad,’ Bilbo pointed out gently. Frodo winced, and Bilbo wished he had not said anything.

There were too many reminders and certainly not enough time to try and come to grips with what had happened.

‘We should keep going,’ Frodo said firmly, a determined look settling over his face. It was, Bilbo knew, the expression of the adult Frodo was now. The one that said he would get this job done no matter the cost.

Bilbo imagined his own face held exactly the same expression.

They found two more orcs in the next hour. The further the orcs travelled and the harder their leader pushed them, the more of them were left behind. Bilbo wondered if the idiotic orc had even noticed that none of those he lost ever caught up with him again.

Perhaps he did not care.

Then, just as they were about to round the next corner, Frodo stopped abruptly. Bilbo immediately skidded to a halt himself, a breath before Frodo began waving his arm frantically to indicate that they should not go further. Bilbo hurried to the side of the path and soon, even without any explanation from Frodo, it became clear why they had stopped.

A loud ruckus was sounding ahead of them, snarling and shouting and swearing at a volume which made it clear that the culprit had no concern for secrecy.

Within a few more seconds the shouting coalesced into words.

‘You lost them, you muck-sucking toads!’ a deep, gravel-rough voice roared. ‘Useless, light-blind boils! Where are they? Where did they go?’

Bilbo was not sure whether to be disgusted by the orcish imagination, or to laugh at the way the leader was clearly abdicating all responsibility for what had happened.

Then he realised that the orcs were just round the corner, having finally cottoned on to the fact that their quarry were not ahead of them.

Oh dear.

He and Frodo were meant to be picking the orcs off one at a time. No one had ever suggested for a minute that they take on even a small group by themselves.

Bilbo began to look around for a hiding place, but Frodo was far ahead of him.

‘Uncle, there isn’t anywhere,’ he hissed. ‘It’s all too open.’

Bilbo did not curse. Not out loud. He simply thought it very stridently.

‘Back that way,’ he ordered Frodo as soundlessly as possible. ‘Quietly now,’ he continued as they moved. ‘If we are lucky they will argue a while longer before they carry on.’

For a few precious minutes their luck held. Bilbo and Frodo skirted along the edge of the rocky slope behind them, which was frustratingly too sheer to climb and hide on, continuing as fast as they could without disturbing the shale on the path too much.

Unfortunately the ground that they gained was hardly enough to protect them from the orc pack when it rounded the corner, nor did it put them any closer to a hiding place.

Even at the edge of the path Frodo and Bilbo were readily visible when the orcs did appear. Bilbo could tell by the cry of triumph that suddenly went up.

‘Get them, lads!’

Oh, _bugger_.

‘Run!’ Bilbo commanded, and he and Frodo took off as fast as they could, volume no longer a problem.

The length of their legs in comparison to the orcs’ was a problem, however, and within a minute the orcs were right on their tail.

Frodo was the one to decide that running any further was a waste of energy.

He caught Bilbo’s arm and pulled him to a stop, turning so that they were facing their enemies. They drew their swords, Bilbo taking a breath he meant to be steadying at the same time. His legs were shaking from the burst of exertion, but his grip on Sting did not falter.

‘Look, boys,’ the orcs’ leader growled. ‘A pair of mice got into Mordor.’

The orcs laughed as if this was the funniest thing they had heard in weeks. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

They were orcs. It probably was.

‘Look, Frodo,’ he responded, making sure to use the tone which had Thorin’s councillors ducking into doorways to avoid him, ‘the orcs have finally realised they are being followed. I was beginning to think we would kill every one before this idiot worked out what was going on.’

‘Kill?’ the leader said, laughter cutting off abruptly.

‘What?’ Frodo asked, picking up on Bilbo’s tactic immediately. ‘Did you think the rest had just wandered off? You aren’t doing very well today, are you? How many soldiers did you have with you this morning?’

‘Shut up,’ the orc snapped, waving his jagged blade in Frodo’s face. He started to say something else, but was interrupted by one of his fellows.

‘How many?’ a small, sharp-nosed orc asked. ‘How many did you kill?’

Bilbo paused for a moment, and gathered from the silence that Frodo was doing the same. Would the truth make their attackers wary, he wondered, or just make them angrier than they already were?

‘Well, you started the day with thirty,’ Bilbo said slowly after another moment or two, ‘and how many of you are there now?’

Comically, the orcs all looked around to count.

‘Nine,’ the sharp-nosed orc answered.

‘Then that means you’ve lost…?’ Bilbo asked, feeling absurdly as if he were teaching a young Frodo his sums.

Frodo had never been this dense though. The orcs truly struggled with thirty minus nine.

Finally Frodo had had enough.

‘Twenty-one,’ he sighed with exasperation. ‘We’ve killed twenty-one.’

Comprehension dawned on orcish faces. Bilbo instantly wished it had not, mostly because it was joined by fury.

In the end, however, all they had needed to do was to buy themselves a little time, and to provide a distraction.

The arrow which sprouted from the leader’s right eye made it clear that they had succeeded at that.

As the big orc dropped like a stone, Legolas, Thorin and Fíli hurried into view. Legolas fired a second arrow, catching the second-largest of the orcs in the throat, and Frodo took advantage of the orcs’ surprise to stab the nearest in the leg, killing it when it fell to the ground.

Bilbo engaged the orc closest to him, sending a prayer to Mahal for protection, ducking blow after blow as he tried to manoeuvre close enough to strike. Nori and Fíli had long since decided that the best strategy Bilbo could try for in battle was to dodge as much as possible until he found an opening. It was surprisingly effective, mostly because his enemies never seemed to expect the attack when it finally came.

This orc was no different. Overconfident in the face of Bilbo’s continued avoidance, it did not notice how close its prey was getting. Not until it tried to strike and found Bilbo inside its reach. Bilbo shoved Sting gracelessly through its stomach, pushing aside a mental wince and feeling of nausea at the sensation.

Bilbo really was not meant to be a warrior. If he could just stop getting himself caught up in battles to save the world, he would be perfectly content never to hold a sword again.

Perhaps he should demand that as a reward if they succeeded.

Mahal had appeared to be a fairly reasonable sort. He would back Bilbo up, surely.

Thankfully for Bilbo, he was frequently surrounded by those who had no compunction about battle. Thorin, Fíli, Legolas and Frodo were making short work of the remaining orcs. Seeing that they had everything well under control, Bilbo moved out of the way and returned to leaning against the rock face, thinking that he might as well get his breath back before they had to set off again.

He wasn’t sure whether his perfect view of what happened next was a good thing or not.

On the one hand, it meant that he was able to explain what had happened later, and to reassure Thorin that it was most definitely not his fault.

On the other hand, it meant that he was stuck staring in horror as their entire quest nearly came tumbling down around them.

For what he saw was the ring, against all odds and logic, making a desperate attempt to return to its Master.

It should not have been possible. There should have been no way that the sealed belt pouch Thorin was wearing tightly bound to his belt could fall off. There should have been no way for it to fall open, not when they knotted it so securely every time.

There should have been no way, in the midst of frantic battle, that one of the orcs could notice the ring so quickly.

But they did.

Bilbo shouted a warning mere seconds after the ring pouch fell open on the ground, though it felt as if he was moving at a third of his usual speed. His yells caught Thorin’s attention, but Thorin was too busy parrying attacks from his opponent to reach for the ring. Unfortunately the same could not be said for one of the two orcs that Fíli had been fending off, who pulled away almost immediately and lunged for the ring on the ground. Bilbo had an impression of an ugly face almost bisected by a large scar, but the orc moved so fast it was almost impossible to see anything else.

‘NO!’ Bilbo heard himself scream, at the same moment that the blazing red eye began to turn towards them. He could hear something else on the edge of his mind, a whispering that held an edge of triumph to it. Sauron, it had to be, he knew they were here… he knew…

The scarred orc had hold of the ring now, was holding it up as if that would somehow help him see it better, was moving it towards his finger. The whispering held an angry edge in those last few seconds. Sauron was not at all happy at the idea of one of his minions wearing his most precious, and most powerful, object.

Then Frodo hit the scarred orc square in the back, kicking out at an orc he had been fighting only moments ago as it tried to grab his ankle. The scarred orc fell forward, crashing face-first to the ground and lying there for a moment winded. The ring flew from his grasp and Bilbo rushed forward to catch hold of it. Unable to get to the belt pouch quickly enough, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the thing up. The whispering became an angry screech for a moment, then Sauron’s eye roamed back and forth, clearly searching for the ring he could no longer sense.

A short distance away Frodo was dealing swiftly with the scarred orc, even as the others promptly downed their own enemies, wild-eyed from the momentary panic. Once all of the orcs were done there was a second of silence as they all stared at one another.

Then Fíli spoke.

‘Run,’ he told them. ‘Run and keep running until we get there.’

None of them argued.

***

Mumakil, Elladan of Imladris was certain, were his least favourite thing in Middle Earth. Sauron came a close second, of course, and orcs were up there as well. And trolls. And…

Well, there were a lot of things he did not like right now, but Mumakil were up at the top.

Nothing this big should be able to move that fast.

He had never made the mistake of thinking that this was going to be an easy fight, not with ten of the blasted things all grouped together and surrounded by the Haradrim infantry. He had simply hoped for slightly less mayhem in the process of trying to kill them.

Making their way to the Mûmakil had required abandoning a certain amount of pride in favour of practicality. Rather than fighting their way through an entire army single-handed, which would have led to many glorious tales but also could have taken the best part of several days, Elladan and Elrohir had, quite simply, made a run for it.

It was very difficult for orcs and Southrons to kill you when they only saw the blur as you ran by.

It was not a foolproof tactic, of course, but it was the best they could do at the moment. Any enemy lucky enough to get hold of one of them was dealt with quickly enough, though they were both purposely saving their arrows.

They were going to need those.

Their passage was helped quite a lot by the Rohirrim, led by Théoden, who had identified the same danger as Thranduil and were determined to neutralise it. Once their lines had reformed, Théoden had held a complicated conversation with Dwalin made up entirely of signals, and the dwarves of Erebor had reformed their ranks off to one side, leaving Théoden a nice big hole through which to charge his Riders. He had taken full advantage and had reached the Southrons not long after Elladan and Elrohir had made their way through.

The distraction was most welcome and had gone a long way to aiding their progress. It had also drawn the Mûmakil, or rather their commanders, forward to do battle and protect their own forces.

The bright side was that they were now much easier to reach.

The down side was that Elladan was now in danger of being trampled.

He was finding it very easy to sympathise with Merry and Pippin at the moment.

‘Best tactic?’ Elrohir asked, as they paused for a moment to survey their challenge.

‘Eyes and mouths?’ Elladan responded, waiting to get his brother’s agreement before continuing. ‘If the animals come down then they will bring their riders with them. I do not know about you but I would not like to fall from that height.’

‘True,’ Elrohir agreed. ‘You take the five on the right, I will take the five on the left?’

‘Why not?’ Elladan uttered. ‘I will meet you in the middle.’

With that they parted, Elladan running towards the first of his targets, drawing an arrow even as he did so.

He soon discovered that one of the great frustrations of fighting Mûmakil was that, for something so large, their eyes were truly tiny as a target. He allowed himself a momentary wish for Legolas, then changed his tactic. As the first of his Mûmakil drew its head back to trumpet its anger at the failed shot to its eye, Elladan sent two arrows straight after one another into its mouth. They were not fatal blows, not even close, but they caused the beast pain and it reared up on its back legs to try and get away. Normally this would not have caused it a problem, but then normally it did no go around with a huge wooden contraption full of archers on its back. As Elladan swiftly dived out of the way of a well-shot arrow fired by one of the Southrons, the Mumak overbalanced and tumbled backwards to the ground, losing most of its riders in the process. It also landed, rather inconveniently for their enemies, right on top of a large portion of their armies.

Elladan would admit to being rather proud of that result.

He did not have a great deal of time to revel in it. Some of the infantry had caught sight of him and were bearing down rather rapidly. Swapping bow for sword, Elladan engaged the first with two quick parries and a slice to the abdomen. The second and third attacked together, damn them, and Elladan found himself twisting and turning as he fended off one and then the other, knowing that to stand still would be to court death. His second opponent tripped him and he slid to one knee on the ground, grabbing his dagger and slamming it into the man’s lower leg, sending him reeling back. In the brief opening that allowed Elladan killed his third attacker, turning back to dispose of the second by spearing him through the heart.

That done, he searched for his next Mûmak at the same time he tried to shake the clump of dirt hanging in his eyes out of his hair.

He did not have to look far. The creatures had come closer while he had been distracted and Elladan felt his heart nearly beat out of his chest as one of them whipped the spiked rod between its tusks towards him, nearly mowing him down. He leapt, hurdling over it, then ran underneath the beast, looking for anything he could use as a handhold. His attention was momentarily drawn by a commotion from the other side of the field, and he looked in time to see one of the Mumak stumble into another, which fell in turn and took down a third. Elladan thought he spotted his brother standing atop one of the Mumak and calmly firing arrows at the last one still on its feet.

Typical. Now he _had_ to deal with these things quickly.

‘Lord Elladan!’ he heard, and turning he saw Théoden bearing down upon him. ‘Can I help?’

‘You are making a habit of this, Théoden,’ Elladan replied, even as he caught hold of the Prince’s wrist and launched himself onto horseback. Théoden laughed.

‘It is far from the worst of my habits, my lord,’ he retorted. ‘These things are decimating my men. Where do you need to be?’

‘Underneath that one,’ Elladan confirmed, pointing to the Mumak with the spikes. ‘If I can reach the ropes…’

Théoden looked sceptical but did not argue. Instead he kicked his horse to a gallop and chased the Mumak across the field, drawing underneath it. As they rode Elladan and Théoden held a hurried conference.

‘Make sure your men do not all band together,’ Elladan advised sharply. ‘They only make themselves easier to sweep aside all at once. You already know to use the spears where you can, I have seen your men doing so. Other than that, aim for their legs. They are as vulnerable there as a horse would be, if somewhat tougher of skin.’

‘Right. Aim for the legs. That we can do,’ Théoden replied. ‘I don’t suppose you could take a few down like your brother?’

Elladan did not try to set fire to the Prince of Rohan with his mind. Truly.

‘I will do my best to oblige, Prince Théoden,’ he said dryly in reply. ‘Try not to leave _all_ of them to me.’

Then, spying an arrow sticking out of the Mumak’s leg, above the knee but close enough to be in reach, Elladan rose to his feet atop the horse’s rear, poised himself and sprang forward. Théoden yelled, whether in fright or enthusiasm Elladan did not know, then headed off in the direction of his men.

Step one complete, Elladan quickly reassessed his plan. It would have served him well enough when he only wanted to stop this particular Mumak. However, following Théoden’s challenge something more complex was going to be needed.

Jumping for the next arrow, then the next and the next, up and up, Elladan hoped fervently that he could pull this off. To kill himself trying to meet the trial of a stripling mortal would be embarrassing in the extreme. Thankfully the Rohirrim archers had done a remarkable, if unintentional, job of providing Elladan with sufficient handholds to make his way up the beast’s back leg. The tail also proved rather useful in his ascent, and in fairly short order Elladan was on the Mumak’s back. Step two complete.

Step three was somewhat more difficult.

Running forward, Elladan jumped up and stood atop the wooden cage keeping the Southrons in place. The first enemy he disposed of by the simple expedient of throwing the man overboard. The second stood to meet him and was kicked off the side with a well-placed foot to the chest. By this point the others had all realised that they were not alone and Elladan became rather busier. Stepping into the cage he drew a dagger and threw it at the furthest archer, trying to ensure he was not going to get an arrow in the back if he turned. Then he ducked swiftly and allowed two of the Southrons to run one another through, neatly disposing of the pair. Stabbing backwards Elladan dealt with the man about to knife him in the back, then spun to the right and left another opponent clutching at his arm.

At this point the man directing the Mumak was alerted to the fact that something was wrong. Turning to view the events behind him, the Haradrim made the mistake of pulling the ropes he held. The Mumak, feeling the pain in its ears, turned sharply in response. The man Elladan had just injured tried and failed to keep his balance, stumbled sideways and crashed into one of his fellows. The man tripped backwards, caught a wooden pole in the back of his legs and fell. In desperation he reached for his injured fellow, but rather than saving himself he instead dragged his shield-mate over the edge with him.

Now Elladan had only one opponent between him and the Haradrim at the head of the Mumak, and he turned on the man with a grin that some would probably have declared savage. He saw the warrior gulp, looked more closely and realised that his enemy was little more than a child. Praying that he would not later curse his own softness of heart, Elladan took two steps forward and brought the hilt of his sword down on the boy’s head.

It was the best he could do to help him.

Reaching down on his way forward Elladan retrieved his thrown dagger, then scrambled over the high front of the wooden cage. Here he came face to face with the remaining Haradrim. The man was struggling his way to his feet, the ropes knotted together on the wooden spur in front of him as he abandoned the Mumak to its own devices. The beast, suddenly realising it was free to do as it would, began to swerve across the battlefield, clearly baffled and trying to figure out how it could escape. Elladan heard loud cries from below as both Haradrim and Rohirrim tried to predict the animal’s movements, and occasionally failed. Thankfully it had its head well up and so it was only the legs they had to worry about.

The Haradrim who should have been guiding the beast was snarling at Elladan, a wordless growl that was meant to intimidate. Elladan was far too old for such tactics to work. He struck out before the man had even finished, catching him unawares and causing the Southron to flinch back. The man recovered, reaching for a spear propped next to his seat and using the blunt end like a club, clearly intending to sweep Elladan off the Mumak’s back. Elladan swore internally and found himself jumping yet again to avoid the blow. The landing was more than slightly wobbly, suffering from a lack of room and a moving platform, but Elladan quickly steadied enough to grab the spear as it went by. Gripping it firmly with the hand not holding his sword, Elladan jerked it to the side with all his might. The Haradrim’s eyes went amusingly wide as he was flung off the Mumak’s head.

Only step four to go, then. Time to show his brother up a little.

Elladan took a long moment to settle himself firmly in place, untied the guiding ropes, and began to tug the Mumak towards its nearest fellow.

‘My apologies, Master Mumak,’ Elladan felt the need to murmur. ‘I am afraid this is not going to be pleasant, but it is rather necessary.’

***

‘Bring it down!’ Thranduil yelled to his archers as the Nazgûl he had been targeting readied to take flight. Both Thranduil and his foe had kept one eye on the battle with the Witch-King, though Thranduil had been by far the less surprised when said battle had resulted in the Witch-King’s death.

One should never argue with the ladies of the East. Not if one wished to remain in possession of one’s life.

Unfortunately the Witch-King’s death had sparked Sauron’s instinct for self-preservation and he had called stridently for the Ringwraiths to rejoin him. Two had already taken to the air, out of range of any bow Thranduil had recourse to.

This one, however, had not. And he was _damned_ if the Valar-cursed thing was getting away.

Luckily for Thranduil, Celeborn was very much of the same mind.

Standing tall, apparently completely oblivious to the orcs surrounding him, Celeborn’s eyes were fixed firmly on the Fell-Beast as it began to take flight. Seconds later Thranduil realised that Celeborn was not oblivious, simply confident in his defenders. Glorfindel span like a child’s wooden top as he laid waste to anything which tried to approach Celeborn. Some feet further back, surrounded by her guard, Lady Galadriel was bending the elements to her will, using breezes to brush any well-aimed arrows aside.

It took Celeborn only a few more moments to find his aim; then he drew his bow back with all his strength and released. The arrow whistled through the air and buried itself in the Fell-Beast’s eye. It dropped from the sky, hitting the ground hard and sending the Nazgûl tumbling across the ground. Thranduil almost expected the creature to land at Celeborn’s feet in true epic fashion, but he was forced to accept disappointment.

Which he did, whilst on the move and rapidly approaching the fallen Ringwraith.

He had not sent Elladan and Elrohir into peril so that he could stand by and watch another defend his son’s safety.

The Nazgûl appeared rattled by the fall, though Thranduil was relatively sure that such creatures did not suffer from the usual head injuries such a descent would cause. It shoved itself to its feet, drawing its sword as it saw Thranduil approaching, then swayed its head to one side as it eyed Celeborn and Glorfindel advancing from another direction. Preparing for battle, Thranduil shucked his bow and drew both his swords. Settling them firmly in his hands, Thranduil stepped forward and struck the first blow.

The complex movements of wielding two swords at once were an old friend to Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. It took little more thought than breathing, or walking, so fully had he been trained in the art. Strike first with the right, twist and strike with the left. Stab back to deal with one of the Nazgûl’s defenders, then lash out again with the right sword to draw the Nazgûl’s attention once more. The dance went on, blow then parry, Thranduil turning constantly as he forced the Nazgûl to move. They were creatures of fear, used to foes who cowered before them, and Thranduil would let none show.

This was the time of the light, not the dark. This creature’s day was over, whether it had accepted that or not.

‘Your turn, mellon-nin?’ he called to Glorfindel, spying the golden hair from the corner of his eye. Celeborn’s silver flew past, returning Glorfindel’s earlier favour and defending their backs. Thranduil waited for a breath, dropping low to avoid the Nazgûl’s swing, expecting to draw back and let Glorfindel finish this fight.

‘I think you have all well in hand, mellon,’ Glorfindel cried instead. ‘I will not be far if you need me.’ In another instance Thranduil might have allowed himself some surprise, but he really was rather busy at the moment so he contained it. Using the left sword to block the Nazgûl’s latest attempt at dismembering him, Thranduil stabbed out with the right and caught it in the chest. Yanking the sword out once more, he rapidly changed position and brought his left sword down, arcing it over the top of the Nazgûl’s guard. The hilt caught the crossguard of the Nazgûl’s sword and Thranduil used the traction to force the Nazgûl’s sword-arm down. The opening was all he needed. Right arm raised high, Thranduil adjusted his grip on his blade and stabbed forward in a move that was more like fencing than anything else.

Within moments the Nazgûl was no more.

Thranduil took a breath and, for one instant, closed his eyes.

‘Fare well ionneg, mellonea,’ he whispered. ‘I have done all I can. I hope it is enough.’

***

Bilbo held the ring now; there would be no time for passing it between them, not if they were right about what was to come. The others ran with swords drawn, though Legolas held his bow at the ready. Kíli would have told them to be careful they did not trip and do the orcs’ work for them.

He wished Kíli were there to say it.

The pace was punishing even for Legolas, given how little rest, food and water they had had of late. Mordor dragged them down, corrupting all that touched it, and the nausea Legolas had felt since they entered had not abated.

He would not let it stop him, but nor could he banish it from his mind.

The path was clear now, the orcs they had so recently killed must have been the only ones who had not obeyed the call to march north, intent as they had been on their prize. Much good it had done them, Legolas reflected with satisfaction. Now if only that had been the worst of their troubles.

Unfortunately the worst yet lay ahead. Mount Doom loomed large as they hurried towards it, the cracked rocks and bare paths that made up its sides becoming visible now. The molten centre glowed orange like a perverse sunrise on the horizon, though all else in the land was black as night. All save Sauron’s eye, which swept the land around Barad-dûr, watching for the enemies he was sure moved to storm his stronghold.

If only he could remain ignorant of their true purpose a little while longer.

If only they could just get closer.

They ran and ran, hearts pounding in their ears and breath coming short, never pausing. Closer and closer Mount Doom came and Legolas began to think that they might make it to the base of the mountain at least.

And then the Nazgûl came.

Flying out of Barad-dûr they shrieked to one another as they surveyed the land, diving low to search and then powering up high once again. Only two, which might have had Legolas shaking his head in wonder in other circumstances. Their friends must have been busy indeed. Even so, two was more than enough to cause disaster for the remnants of the Fellowship.

Fíli looked sharply to the side, slowing momentarily, searching for Bilbo and Frodo and catching their eyes as the others slowed with him.

‘Go,’ he commanded, though his voice was choked with what could only be repressed tears. ‘Cloak hoods up, hide whenever you need to. They don’t… they don’t know you’re here. They need not know.’

Bilbo swallowed, then nodded. Frodo did the same.

‘I love you,’ their youngest hobbit said softly. ‘All of you.’

‘And we you, akhûnith,’ Thorin replied gently. ‘Go and save the world. We will come back for you.’

Perhaps it was an empty promise, but they would do everything in their power to keep it.

Perhaps, in the end, that was all that mattered.

***

Fíli was reaching the end of his strength now and he knew it. The endless travel, the lack of food and water, the lack of sleep and, above all, the lack of Kíli was wearing on him every second. The ring, whether he was bearing it or not, doubtless played its own part. They had all felt it grow in strength as they travelled deeper into Mordor and Fíli had felt it brushing against his mind since its escape not long ago.

The ring knew what they all did. This was the last chance. For them or for it.

All of that, however, he was determined now to push aside. The Nazgûl were coming, the last of the Nine, it would appear, and Fíli would meet them standing tall. For Kíli’s sake, in his honour, for Fíli knew that his brother had stood tall when it counted, had met his death on his feet.

For Mum’s sake as well, and that of all their friends fighting some miles away to buy them time. This was not about him, not now, if it ever had been. Uncle had spoken truly. This was their time to save the world. To save their families and friends.

So Fíli would do his part, as Uncle and Legolas would.

They were going to make the Nazgûl wish they had never heard the call of the One Ring.

They were going to make sure that they had no reason to go looking for anyone else.

Veering off the path was an attempt to pique the Nazgûls’ curiosity, though they did not go far. The Plateau of Gorgoroth was as unhospitable as its name implied, but nowhere near as barren as Fíli had expected a plateau to be. It was clear that this was where the orcs camped and it was filled with the detritus that had been left behind when they had marched away. Searching for an open area in which they could take the Nazgûl on, Fíli tripped over an abandoned helmet and would have fallen had Legolas not caught him.

‘I hope whichever orc was responsible for that gets his skull split,’ Fíli grumbled, though he knew it for a waste of breath. Uncle snorted, but did not respond.

‘There,’ Uncle said a short while later. ‘They have spotted us. It would seem they are waiting for us to arrive.’

Fíli nodded and they pressed forward, slowing to a walk now that they were sure the Nazgûl had the right targets in mind. No need to appear too eager, it would only make the Nazgûl suspicious if they had any sense. In any case the running had drained them and Fíli knew that even a brief respite would be better than nothing. It would have to be.

As they drew closer the Nazgûl landed their beasts and stepped forward, swords drawn and raised before them.

‘Legolas?’ Fíli queried breathlessly. Legolas shook his head.

‘I have no arrows left,’ he answered quietly. Fíli only nodded. He had almost expected it. They had not had time to retrieve any of those Legolas had used in Mordor.

‘Swords it is then,’ Fíli stated. The Nazgûl, deciding that their prey were not likely to conveniently speed up again, began to stride across the expanse between them. Fíli had a half-hysterical moment where he imagined all this as a tale he was telling to the children in Erebor, drawn out to increase the tension of the scene.

He had had enough of dramatic tension to last ten lifetimes.

‘You took your time,’ Uncle shouted as they drew nearer. ‘We began to think you would not join us after all.’

‘You are fools,’ one of the Nazgûl responded unexpectedly. Fíli hadn’t been entirely sure that any except the Witch-King knew how to speak. ‘You cannot win this war. Why not wait in your own lands to die?’

‘You are two of nine,’ Fíli shouted back, done with the unthinking arrogance of Sauron’s lackeys. ‘Seven of your own have fallen to our allies. Are you so sure of your victory, minion?’

‘You had another,’ the Nazgûl countered, ‘at the beginning of your journey. Where lies he now?’

Fíli’s hand clenched on his dagger hilt, the pattern biting into his skin as he used the pain to keep his expression blank. What did they know of Kíli? If they knew he had travelled with the Fellowship, did they know Frodo and Bilbo were here as well?

Clearly the Nazgûl took the silence as a sign of their defeat, for it cawed a laugh and raised its sword once more.

Then it struck.

***

Bilbo could feel paranoia gripping him as he scrambled up the side of Mount Doom. The Nazgûl flew overhead and, though he knew in his mind that they were some distance away and on the other side of the mountain, his heart continued to try and crawl out of his throat. All of his instincts were screaming at him to plaster himself to the ground, cover up with his cloak and remain there, safe from the view of his enemies.

It was a trick of the ring and he knew it. The blasted thing would like nothing more than for him to stop his ascent now, to halt at the very last step.

Well it was not happening. Not here, not now.

Planting his feet, Bilbo forced himself upright, pulled out the ring pouch and glared at it.

‘You are not going to win,’ he told it firmly, emphasising the words as fiercely as he could. ‘I will climb this mountain. I will reach the top. And I most definitely will destroy you. You are _done_.’

‘And if he does not,’ Frodo added, glaring at the pouch with as much ferocity as his Uncle, ‘then I will!’

Pain slammed into them both, united with fury and spite and, above all, despair. Bilbo had no room for pity in his mind, though it echoed quietly in his heart. The ring was what it had been made to be. Sauron… who knew what Sauron was, but he had forged this thing as a manifestation of his will. It did only what it was created to do; find its Master and corrupt all in its path.

For now, regrettably, the hobbits’ defiance had only made things worse, which was not at all the intended outcome. The ring battered at their minds, like a storm tossing a ship on the ocean, refusing to go down without a fight. For long moments Bilbo thought perhaps it would win after all, that they would go no further.

Then Frodo touched his hand and gripped it.

‘One more step,’ his nephew said, the saying an old one of Bilbo’s, used time and again when a young Frodo announced he was too tired to travel any further. Bilbo had always teased him along. Just one more step, Frodo, and then tea and toast by the fire. Come on, just one more step.

Frodo had understood the lie, of course, but he had always made that next step.

Now they made it together again. One foot, then the other, then the first again.

The pain went on, blinding agony that led them to stumble more than once. When Frodo’s foot slipped on the shale and he tumbled five steps back down the path Bilbo was ready to cry with frustration. They would not make it. They could not.

Yet somehow they kept going. Frodo pulled himself to his feet, murmured ‘Uncle Dwalin,’ and took three huge steps to return to where he had started. Another pause, when he felt he could go no further and this time it was ‘Aunt Dís.’

Bilbo did not say it aloud, but he followed Frodo’s lead and began his own litany. Thorin. Fíli. Bofur.

Step, by step, by step.

It was long and agonising and nearly impossible. But they made it possible.

Somehow, finally, they were at the top.

***

Parry. Parry. Attack. Retreat a step. Try not to trip over Fíli’s foot. Wish desperately that Dwalin were here. Parry. Attack. Attack. Try so very hard not to die.

Every moment of the battle against the Nazgûl lived in Thorin’s memory as a single impression, his mind reduced to a pinpoint focus. There was no room for error here, no room for complex thought. Worn down as they were, this battle was one of instinct and Thorin allowed that instinct to guide him.

Catch the Nazgûl’s blade with Orcrist. Wince at the damage to the blade. Slash at its throat. Duck the return swing. Lock blades again. Grip Orcrist to force the Nazgûl’s sword back. Kick out. Lean back. Turn. Swing high.

Beside him Fíli split his attention between both Nazgûl, assisting first Thorin, then Legolas as best he could. When both Nazgûl turned on him he caught their swords on a dagger each, then twisted the daggers round, moving back as he clashed the blades together in front of him. It was all the distraction Thorin needed.

Strike.

The Nazgûl crumpled, fading to nothing.

Legolas cried out with pain, even as he made his own winning blow.

The Nazgûl had been just a little too quick.

***

They paused at the Sammath Naur, the entrance to Sauron’s volcanic forge, gasping for breath and nearly on their knees.

The ring fought on, driving at them, insistent in its panic. Frodo slumped, pushed to the ground even as he tried to keep his feet.

Bilbo took one more shuddering breath, then knelt next to his nephew and tugged on his hand. When Frodo managed to raise his head and turned to look, Bilbo uttered only one word.

‘Kíli.’

Silence, then Frodo nodded. One hand flat to the floor, he heaved himself up and to his feet.

Leaning on one another, Bilbo and Frodo stumbled towards the lava at the heart of the mountain.

Bilbo pulled out the pouch, not bothering to pull the ring out, then stared at it for a moment. His face twisted, a tormented grimace that he could not prevent, hand in spasm as he fought to open it.

‘Kíli,’ Frodo repeated.

Bilbo took another breath.

He dropped the pouch over the edge.

***

‘Legolas!’ Thorin shouted as he saw pain ripple across his friend’s face. Legolas clasped a hand to his leg, fighting not to fall.

Then the world exploded.

******


	50. Deliver Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Struggling to survive as the sky burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas dear readers! I hope you all had a lovely day and that you enjoy this present. If you'd like to give one in return, please let me know what you think. We're very close to the end now :)
> 
> A massive thank you to ISeeFire, who went above and beyond the usual duties of a beta by checking this over on Christmas Day.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Deliver Me

Aragorn was not sure whether to be horrified or amused when he saw Pippin and Merry exchange glances, smirk at one another and then calmly head off in the direction of a nearby troll.

It was cheering to know that they were confident in their abilities, for they fully deserved to be, but Valar above they were going to send him into heart spasms at some point. First Nazgûl, then trolls.

He kept half an eye on their fight even as he slammed his way through the orcs around him. At this point in a battle Aragorn generally threw fancy moves aside and settled for whatever worked, punching, kicking and shoulder-barging his way through the throng. Anduril sang as he whirled to face first one opponent and then another, pausing only to check on his young friends.

Merry had begun their battle with the simple but effective tactic of running in close while the troll was distracted by one of their dwarven allies and then stabbing it through the foot. As the creature howled with pained dismay, bending over in an aborted attempt to protect its injured appendage, Pippin ran up behind, got a good grip on the back of its armour and levered himself upwards until he sat on its shoulders. Merry kept it as distracted as possible, running before it and shouting whatever insults came to mind, while Pippin settled himself fully. Then Pippin raised his sword, aimed carefully, and slammed it down at back of the troll’s neck with all of his weight and force behind it.

The troll dropped almost instantly, flinging Pippin forward. Aragorn quickly slew both of the orcs before him and peered across the field, waiting to see Pippin rise again.

That was when the screaming started.

It was high-pitched, so much so that at first it was barely audible, but it built and built and built in volume until the whole field drew to a halt in order to stare.

It was coming from Barad-dûr.

It was coming from the eye.

Aragorn felt his breath catch.

Could this be it?

Could they have succeeded?

Then the tower began to fall.

It happened so slowly that Aragorn wondered at first if he was simply imagining things, for surely it was not natural for a building so heavy to take so long to fall. The centre crumbled first, the top section supporting the eye remaining whole as it sank downwards with a drunken sort of grace. The eye pulsed with a frantic beat, whipping one way and then another as if Sauron, panicked at the last, searched for a way out.

He would find none.

Somehow Gandalf was at Aragorn’s side, and Aragorn looked over to see tears brimming in the wizard’s eyes. Thousands of years of plotting and scheming all come to this, to these final moments of victory.

The eye shrank in on itself.

Then it blasted outwards with a wave of power that flattened the area around it and threw up layers of dirt and rock. The gate began to crumble too, and Aragorn heard his fellow commanders join him in a desperate cry.

‘Fall back,’ he roared to men further forward as the ground began to fall away. ‘FALL BACK!’

They were all smart enough to realise what was happening; the Rohirrim began to gallop away from the gates, grabbing any ally they could reach as they did so, ignoring the orcs who scrambled to escape the tide of destruction flowing towards them.

Aragorn need not have worried. In a display of precision so acute as to be bizarre, the crumbling earth stopped short of the leading edge of their lines, leaving their men untouched. Aragorn caught sight of a number of orcs still falling and realised that Dwalin and Balin, after an initial moment of distraction, had commanded the dwarves to keep fighting, to ensure as few orcs and Southrons as possible escaped.

The moment was complete. Their task done. Their future assured.

Aragorn let out a cry of triumph and heard it echoed down the line. Somewhere, not far away, Lady Dís yelled her joy to the sky.

Then the volcano erupted.

***

‘That is enough sleep for now, Sigrid, my dear,’ Sigrid’s mostly-peaceful slumber was interrupted. ‘Wake up so I can check you over again.’

Sigrid resisted the urge to hide under the blankets. She really did not feel like being awake at this moment.

Then she discovered that there were no blankets.

And realised that the voice she was hearing sound a lot like Lord Elrond.

Something tickled at her memory. A reason why Elrond might be here, might be concerned about her.

She opened her eyes.

‘Very good,’ Elrond said happily. ‘Continue to such an obedient patient and we will get along perfectly.’

‘Witch-King?’ Sigrid asked huskily, her voice oddly raw. Elrond gave her a sip of water, which turned out not to be water at all. At her curious expression he explained.

‘That is Miruvor. Not normally shared with our mortal kin but, after all of that, I think well-deserved. The Witch-King is dead, Sigrid. You have done the world a great service.’

‘Dís and Tauriel,’ Sigrid countered, choosing her words carefully as she tested her voice. It was still rough, almost as if she had been screaming orders for hours on end, but much better following the drink.

‘Yes, Lady Dís and Captain Tauriel are also to be congratulated. I suspect they will receive much congratulation, in fact, once Dwalin has finished explaining to Lady Dís all of the reasons why she is never to be allowed out of his sight again.’

At this point the conversation was interrupted by an ugly howl, a sound which produced an instinctive reaction and had Sigrid bolting upright and reaching for her dagger, though with her left hand. Elrond, too, rose and turned, sword in hand.

The orc which had decided to target them regretted it swiftly, as Sigrid was reminded that the Lord of Rivendell had commanded troops thousands of years longer than she had been alive.

The scene prodded her conscience, however, and Sigrid began to push her way to her feet.

‘No, that is most definitely not what the healer ordered,’ Elrond said dryly. ‘You were doing remarkably well, Sigrid, do not spoil it now. You need to rest.’

It had taken Sigrid all of a second to realise that the healer was, in this case, entirely right. Her entire right arm was numb still, and she felt as weak as Alnir after a night of too much ale. In all likelihood she was not going anywhere any time soon.

‘Should you not be fighting?’ she forced herself to ask anyway. Sigrid was all too aware that she was currently hoarding, if unintentionally, the leader of Rivendell’s army and the most powerful healer they had. ‘Or with the other healers?’ Elrond laughed.

‘There are a number of people here, Sigrid,’ he told her, ‘who love you a great deal and who came equipped with armies. For my continued survival I think it would be best if I remained with you until the field is won. I will, of course, trust you not to tell our allies that I did so because I feared Imladris could not fight all of them at once and win. Glorfindel would never forgive me for such a slight. Take pity on me?’

Sigrid looked at him carefully, concluded that he really did not mind being stuck guarding her and sank back to the ground. Elrond settled himself on her right, blocking the open avenue of approach, and rested his sword across his knees. He was relaxed, but ready to fight should the need arise.

‘If it makes you feel better, my dear,’ Elrond said after a few moments, ‘Master Bofur remained until he was certain you were healed and then informed me that you would kill him if any of the others were hurt while he sat here watching you sleep and he had best get moving. So you are far from denuding the battlefield of warriors.’

The wry tone Elrond took as he copied Bofur’s words made Sigrid giggle even in her state of exhaustion. That did, indeed, sound like her beloved. It was also very true. She was about to tell Elrond as much when an eerie shrieking rang out and turned her blood to ice.

‘Nazgûl?’ she gasped to Elrond, struggling to pull herself around the corner of the rock so she could see. Surely they were not still on the field, Sigrid thought. Glorfindel and the others had been taking care of them, she was certain of it. Elrond, not hampered by injury, stepped past her and moved to see what was happening. Then he reappeared and lifted her rather easily, surprising Sigrid by guiding her to a better viewpoint.

His next words explained the odd move.

‘No, my dear, not Nazgûl,’ Elrond said softly. ‘Look. Watch the world change.’ His arm reached out and pointed and Sigrid gazed upon the eye of Sauron as it tumbled, watched the tower of Barad-dûr fall.

Watched in horror, some moments later, as the survival of her friends became almost impossible.

No.

Please, _no_.

***

Dís watched Mount Doom explode with numbing disbelief. It was not true. It could not be true.

Thorin. Fíli. Kíli.

It wasn’t true.

The evidence of her own eyes said otherwise.

Around her so much was happening. The orcs were attempting to flee and were cut down in the hundreds by their enemies. Dís knew that was what Erebor’s army would be commanded to do. Stamp them out to the last orc. Dwalin would kill and kill and kill, even as his eyes blurred with tears. The rest of the Company would do the same.

Dís wanted to. She wanted to do it for her brother, for her sons, for the men she loved who had made this fatal journey and saved them all.

She couldn’t move.

How could she ever move again?

A hand rested on her arm, a long shadow falling over her.

She looked up to see Gondor’s King standing above her, the two young hobbits who had travelled with her boys not far away, tear tracks streaking their faces.

Dís snapped back to herself immediately.

Grief was for the dark hours of night, when the work was done. Not for a battlefield. Old habits would get her through. They always had.

‘I am well,’ Dís told Aragorn, ignoring the look of incredulity. ‘Thank you, but I am perfectly fine. I must go and find my Captains. We are not done yet.’

Aragorn continued to stare for a long moment, then seemed to realise what she was doing and nodded, stepping away. Dís straightened her spine to her full height, squared her shoulders and walked away.

The Princess of Erebor did not falter. Not even when she lost her reason to live.

Oh Mahal. Reason to live.

Legolas.

Thranduil. She had to find Thranduil.

***

Thranduil hit the ground with a sharp crack as his knees buckled and refused to hold his weight. Tearing his eyes from the sight of Mount Doom erupting, he forced them instead to the ground before him, struggling for dignity, for pride…

For anything that would prevent him sobbing like a child in front of every major power in Arda.

His child. His sweet child. His light against the dark.

‘Thranduil.’

Arms wrapped around him, strong arms with a tight grip, and Thranduil prepared himself for being pulled to his feet. Instead he was pulled against a shoulder, even as someone else approached his back and knelt over him. It took him a long minute to realise that he was now effectively blocked from view.

‘Oh, Thranduil,’ Lady Galadriel said, the voice at his back. ‘My dear friend, I cannot express our sorrow.’

Thranduil could hold the sob in no longer. One turned into two, then three, then an endless stream robbing him of breath as they fought their way out.

‘There is no greater pain,’ Galadriel murmured, hand upon his hair. ‘I am so very sorry.’

Celeborn said nothing, but Thranduil had just enough presence of mind to recognise him as the shoulder currently holding Thranduil upright.

Minutes passed. None of them moved. Thranduil could not have risen if Sauron himself had appeared before them.

No, that was a lie. He could have.

He would have risen just long enough to stab the bastard through his non-existent heart.

They sat in silence until the fragile peace was disturbed by a commotion nearby. Forcing his head up, Thranduil saw Dís shoving her way past some of the Woodland Realm’s soldiers, closely followed by Tauriel, whose eyes were streaming with tears. The minutes of quiet had allowed Thranduil to slip away from his own body somewhat, and the distance it had given him allowed him to wonder which fool had tried to prevent Dís from going where she would.

It also allowed him to realise that, whatever he had lost, before him was a greater victim still of Sauron’s evil. Pushing upright and away from Celeborn at last, Thranduil held out his arms in time for Dís to slip into them without breaking stride. They did not speak, only clung to one another.

Dís did not cry, though Thranduil felt his own tears continuing, if more quietly than before. A flash of red in his vision drew his attention, and he gently eased Dís into one arm as he stretched the other out to Tauriel.

Dís took a shuddering breath, then leant up to whisper in his ear.

‘Stay with me,’ she said softly. ‘Please. Do not make me do this alone.’

It was a blatant piece of manipulation, of course. Dís would be surrounded by Thorin’s Company, by all their friends, by all of her people. She would have to fight for a second alone, whether she needed the support or not. She did not need an old elf with nothing left to live for.

Thranduil fell for it anyway.

‘I will be here.’

***

Frodo allowed himself and Uncle Bilbo only a brief, awed second to bask in the knowledge that they had done this. That they had, once and for all, destroyed Sauron’s Ring of Power.

No more would its evil mar their lives.

No one else would be lost to its vile touch.

Frodo felt lighter than air, suddenly, at the loss of the weight it had forced upon them all.

They had done it.

They had won.

Looking at Uncle Bilbo’s face, Frodo knew that he felt the same. Years that had stolen over his uncle’s face as they travelled slipped away. Lines of worry and stress were smoothed out as Uncle Bilbo looked at him and smiled.

It was done.

Or it would be, once they had managed to get away from here. Even during his moment of basking, Frodo had been aware of Mount Doom and the ring’s slow disintegration. Now the lava was beginning to bubble and Frodo suddenly had a very bad feeling about what was going to happen next.

‘Time to go,’ he instructed Uncle Bilbo firmly, backing away from the edge rapidly.

‘A wonderful plan,’ Uncle Bilbo agreed, spotting the same thing. From outside came a crashing, grating noise Frodo could not identify but which echoed even above the noise inside the Sammath Naur. The two hobbits sped up, turning their backs to the lava and beginning to run, stumbling as their bodies faltered but too frightened to consider pausing.

This was not good.

This was not good _at all_.

Especially not when the bridge began to collapse behind them, the liquid boiling up and churning audibly. Ahead of the lava, but only just, Bilbo and Frodo fled to the dubious safety of outside, throwing themselves at a tall outcropping nearby. They gazed down at the orange ocean flowing around them in disbelief.

‘Why did it never occur to us that the mountain might explode if we did that?’ Uncle Bilbo asked, apparently of the air around them.

‘Because mountains full of fire don’t have evil rings thrown into them very often?’ Frodo asked, feeling that this deserved to be said. ‘So we haven’t had a lot of reason to think about it.’

‘Yes, but we have been on this journey for months, Frodo,’ Bilbo replied. ‘One would think that the subject of “what happens after we throw the ring in” would have come up at least once or twice.’

‘Except we never really thought we’d make it, did we?’ Frodo said quietly, ready now to speak the words out loud. ‘We knew, Uncle Bilbo. All of us. We always knew we weren’t going back.’

‘Did we?’ Uncle Bilbo said, surprised. ‘I thought you…’ then he stopped.

‘You thought I was too young to truly understand what we were doing?’ Frodo queried. Reluctantly Uncle Bilbo nodded.

‘I was a little, maybe,’ Frodo explained. ‘I’m not sure I truly believed it at first. Once we got here, though. Once we saw Mordor. Once we lost Kíli. I knew. There’s no way back. We have no food and no water. We’re tired, we’re surrounded by nothingness. Well, we were. Now we’re surrounded by _that_ ,’ he gestured at the molten fire and sighed. ‘There’s no way out.’

‘I am sorry, Frodo,’ Uncle Bilbo said after a brief quiet. ‘Both for bringing you here, and for trying so hard not to bring you here.’

Frodo could not help himself. He stared at his Uncle in stunned silence.

‘You thought I could not learn?’ Uncle Bilbo asked quietly, eyes still on their lava-surrounded prison. ‘Your cousins have taught me well, dear lad, as has your uncle. I wish you were not here with me. I wish you were safe in Erebor, as I wish all of our family were safely at home. I know now, however, that you are far more capable than I gave you credit for. You have grown up, Frodo. I could not have made it here without you. If we go no further than this, know that I am so, so proud of you.’

Frodo could not speak. The happiness he had felt briefly inside the mountain had been overwhelming, fuelled by the knowledge that he might, in fact, have helped to save the world.

It was nothing on the sheer delight of this moment.

He had made his uncle proud.

It was all he needed.

‘I love you,’ he said for the second time that day. Uncle Bilbo reached out and took his hand, squeezing gently.

‘I love you, Frodo,’ he responded.

‘Will the others make it?’ Frodo asked, though he knew that truly Bilbo could not answer the question.

‘Of course they will, my boy,’ Uncle Bilbo told him. ‘They will have time yet to make their way out. They will find a way. They always have.’

Lying back, Frodo gazed up at the boiling sky, watching ash and fire shoot forth from Mount Doom in frenetic bursts. The worst of it was already easing, but the lava continued to flow. Frodo wondered how far it would travel now. Would Mordor be burnt clean? Perhaps, after this was done, life would be able to enter here again.

Frodo would not know, of course. His journey was done.

Somehow, right now, lying beside his uncle and on the verge of unconsciousness, that didn’t seem so bad.

***

Mount Doom was erupting.

Fíli stared, uncomprehending, for several seconds as the ground shook and the top of the mountain dissolved under the force of the explosion, clumps of rock thrown clear of the blast. The rest turned to ash as it was hurled into the sky.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Not again.

Broken out of his horrified paralysis by the thought, Fíli looked around wildly and began to run.

He had to do something. He had to save his family.

He had to try.

‘Fíli!!’ he heard Uncle yell from a few feet away, where he was crouched next to Legolas desperately trying to staunch their friend’s bleeding leg wound. Fíli ignored him.

This was too important. There was no time.

Running, sprinting faster than he ever had before, Fíli neared the stunned-looking Fell-Beasts just as they began to come out of their daze. The nearest reared up on its back legs, then settled on the ground again, its head weaving from side to side as it tried to decide on a course of action.

It came to a decision at the same moment that Fíli got within arm’s reach, wings beginning to flap as it pushed itself off the ground.

Desperate, knowing this was his only chance, Fíli threw himself into the air as well.

Flinging one arm out, he caught one of the beast’s reins and clung on desperately, hanging in mid-air as he fought to get a better grip. The beast was clearly confused, dropping back to the ground as it tried to decipher the weight suddenly bearing down on its head. Fíli used the pause to swing forward, scrabbling to get a leg over the beast’s neck. It was almost impossible. The rein hung too low, there wasn’t enough tension in it, he couldn’t swing high enough.

Then the beast began twisting its head, trying to see him even though he was out of its range of vision. Not understanding that he was clinging to the reins, it leaned further and further round, certain that if it could just move a bit further it would be able to see the irritation.

Or eat it. Possibly what it really wanted to do was eat him.

Either way, unknowingly the beast played right into Fíli’s hands. Its twisting brought him right up against its neck, just as his aching arms felt ready to give out entirely. One last swing, one desperate fumble, and Fíli was sitting on its neck.

He’d never grabbed for a set of reins so quickly in his life.

Just in time as well. He managed a good grip on them with only a breath to spare before Uncle went flying past, aiming for the second Fell-Beast with a determined expression that would have had any sensible creature fleeing for safety. Fíli’s mount tried to grab Uncle in its mouth and Fíli hauled back on the reins sharply to prevent it from doing so.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what he’d been planning to do next. Not that he was going to tell Uncle that, but perhaps he’d better come up with a plan.

Now.

If asked, Fíli would claim that Uncle was simply lucky in his choice of Fell-Beast. It was hardly _Fíli’s_ fault that his had been trying to take off when he approached; as opposed to Uncle’s, which simply sat there dozily and waited for something to happen to it.

If Fíli’s mount had been so docile perhaps he could have run up the wing and onto its back as well.

All of this ran through his head as he realised that the first thing they had to do was retrieve Legolas, who was still conscious and pressing cotton against his wound but failing fast. Legolas was paler even than normal, blood loss taking hold, but even now he was struggling to his feet, determined to join them.

‘Wait there,’ Fíli called to him. ‘We’ll come to you… try to come to you,’ he corrected himself, as he looked down at the beast under him and tried to decide if it worked like a horse. A tentative kick had the beast shuffling a few steps forward, at least. Like many dark creatures it did not seem to be endowed with a powerful mind and the fact that the rider on its back was not a Nazgûl did not seem to worry it hugely. As long as _something_ was telling it what to do…

Fíli kicked again and managed another few steps. Then again. They approached Legolas rather more slowly than he would have liked, and the whole situation was painstakingly anxious considering what was going on so close to them, but finally they were there. Fíli directed Legolas to Uncle’s mount, which hadn’t yet tried to eat anyone at least, and carefully turned his Fell-Beast to one side as Uncle leant down and let Legolas use his shoulders and neck as leverage. Legolas made it, if barely, and promptly fainted.

‘We have to get him to a healer,’ Uncle told Fíli grimly, pressing the cloth over Legolas’ wound anew, but even as he said it he was looking in the same direction as Fíli, up at Mount Doom.

‘We can’t leave them there,’ Fíli said, speaking their thoughts aloud. ‘We just can’t. They might still be…’

It was a faint hope, painfully faint, but it was all Fíli had. He couldn’t lose Bilbo and Frodo as well. Not now. Not ever.

‘Can you make that thing fly?’ Uncle asked dryly. ‘I am fairly sure mine will follow.’

‘We’re going to find out,’ Fíli returned determinedly. Then he kicked as hard as he possibly could, yanking upwards on the reins in a way that would have had him beheaded by any stable-master. At first nothing happened. Then the Fell-Beast reared up sharply and nearly tipped Fíli off backwards.

Damnit.

Angry now, desperation still clawing at him despite the show of calm he was putting on for Uncle, Fíli kicked again.

‘Move, you idiot thing,’ he growled under his breath. ‘Fly, damn you. Come on, go!’

Whether it was the words or the motions he did not know, but finally the Fell-Beast complied. Pulling its reins Fíli aimed it at Mount Doom, kicking again when the creature appeared likely to try and avoid the area.

Self-preservation had no place in this moment.

Bilbo and Frodo were up there. Somewhere. They had to be.

***

Bilbo did not know how long he was unconscious for, or how long Frodo had been so. He felt a fool for letting himself faint, knew how precarious their position was and how easily the lava could wear away the base of their only protection. He simply had not been able to keep himself alert any longer.

Besides, part of him whispered in the dark corners of his mind, what did it matter when he died? Now or later, there was hardly any difference really.

Bilbo pushed it aside, drawn instead to focus on what had woken him.

The sound of beating wings.

His first thought, slowed though it was by exhaustion, was that it was typical that the Nazgûl could not leave them to die in peace.

His mind might mutter about all deaths being the same, but really, who wished to die by being _eaten_?

Not Bilbo Baggins.

His second thought was that if the Nazgûl were coming then he truly had lied to Frodo. Their friends would not, had not, made it through.

Reaching over Bilbo shook Frodo awake, eyes now on the Nazgûl as they come nearer, mounted on their horrid, unnatural animals.

‘Uncle?’ Frodo asked quietly.

‘Trouble coming,’ Bilbo answered. ‘Be ready.’

Ready for what he did not know. What could they do to save themselves?

Even so, he rose until he was standing and drew Sting from its sheath.

One last fight.

‘BILBO!’

So great was Bilbo’s shock that he stumbled and nearly fell from the spur of rock, Frodo reaching to catch hold of his waist as he did so.

‘Thorin?’

***

Finding Bilbo and Frodo alive was perhaps the best moment of Thorin’s entire life, including the moment when he stood in Erebor and realised that the kingdom was his once more and that his people were safe.

They were here. They had survived.

Only the fact that Legolas remained unconscious, deathly pale against his chest, prevented him from being flooded with euphoria.

They must hurry. They must.

Next to him Fíli was fighting to guide his mount closer to Frodo and Bilbo, and as they drew nearer Fíli pulled away, circling the rock once, then twice as he used upper body strength and sheer willpower to force the Fell-Beast to obey him.

‘You’ll have to jump,’ Fíli cried to the hobbits and Thorin saw them nod. He longed to go and help, knowing he had the more compliant mount, but he could not risk harming Legolas in the attempt.

As Fíli began his third pass Bilbo sheathed his sword, Frodo following suit, then reached down and created a cup from his hands. Frodo looked ready to argue, but caught the look on his uncle’s face and changed his mind. Placing his foot in Bilbo’s hands, Frodo readied himself and, at the moment Fíli was closest to him, threw himself into the air, powered by Bilbo’s strength behind him.

For a moment he flew, clearly fighting the urge to wave his arms around madly, then he hit the Fell-Beast’s side and managed to get a grip on one the spines on its back. Using the spine, Frodo hauled himself aboard and scooted forward to wrap his arms around Fíli’s waist.

It was only then that Thorin realised that Bilbo had no one to help him and barely any way to manage a running start.

Thankfully Fíli was ahead of him. As Thorin watched Fili began a fourth circuit, the Fell-Beast so used to the idea now that it barely resisted the motion at all, and passed the reins to Frodo. Frodo clutched them tightly, continuing to guide the beast, and Thorin’s heart soared into his mouth as Fíli stretched sideways, extending himself until Thorin was sure he could not possibly stay on the beast’s back, and held out his arm.

‘Bilbo, now,’ he shouted and Bilbo checked his position, closed his eyes and jumped.

Bilbo’s hand caught Fíli’s perfectly as his body completed the arc he had begun, swinging towards the Fell-Beast’s neck. Fíli began to haul himself upright, pulling Bilbo with him and aiming to settle the hobbit in front of him.

Unfortunately they were flying above a newly-active volcano and below a bubble of lava suddenly exploded, spraying molten liquid upwards. The Fell-Beast shrieked in fright and jerked back, trying to escape.

Fíli slipped.

Bilbo’s weight, unbalanced by the sudden movement, pulled at his arm and Thorin watched in horror as his nephew and friend slid, moments from losing their grip on the beast and on one another and falling into the fire below.

***

‘Oh for…! No. NO. I will not permit it.’

Not after all of this. Not when they had come so far.

What was one more rule broken, after all those that had come before?

***

Fíli felt himself begin to slip, felt Bilbo struggle to find purchase somewhere on the Fell-Beast’s body with his feet so he could push himself up. Reacting instinctively, he threw himself backwards and felt Frodo grip his tunic, heaving with all his might.

They steadied. Fíli found his balance again and pulled Bilbo with him. Bilbo found traction, somehow, and pushed upwards with his legs to help them along.

Finally he, too, was on the Fell-Beast’s back.

Fíli did not hesitate. Pausing only to ensure they were all steady, he reclaimed the reins from Frodo and pulled the Fell-Beast around, kicking it away from Mount Doom.

This time the beast was only too happy to comply.

It wanted to be there no more than they did.

At last they left Mordor behind.

***

Dwalin had sheared through every orc he had come across with violent glee, focused entirely on not allowing himself to think.

Not allowing himself to think and guarding his brother’s back.

He was losing no one else. A King, three Princes, a hero of Erebor and his dearest nephew were quite enough for one day.

No need to add the Steward of Erebor to the list as well.

He would be resigning as soon as they returned to the Mountain as it was.

Enough was enough. Clearly he was no longer fit to do his job.

It was only by chance that he was the first to catch sight of the approaching Nazgûl. Dwalin looked up to judge his location in relation to the precipice (because he wished to _resign_ from his job, thank you very much, not vacate the position through sheer stupidity) and the Nazgûl showed as a shadow against the sky, more easily visible with the horizon still burning red.

Dwalin wasn’t thinking about the horizon. Or why it was red.

Red was now his least favourite colour.

Nazgûl, on the other hand, were practically a treat at this point.

Dwalin would thoroughly enjoy tearing them to pieces.

He just had to get them on the ground first.

Luckily he had plenty of archers to hand. Bard had brought every one Dale had with him. Dwalin was sure he could spare Erebor one or two for a good cause.

Heading towards the nearest archer he could see, Dwalin killed the man’s opponent with an efficient double swipe of his axes, slicing it in two, then turned to give the man his finest glare of command.

‘You, with me,’ he ordered, not bothering to check if the man was following before he set off again. He heard Balin speak to the archer rather more tactfully, explaining what they wished him to do, so he knew they were both there.

It took little effort to judge the Nazgûls’ path. Apparently these two had a death wish, for they were aiming squarely for a chunk of clear ground a fair way from the edge of the precipice, right in the midst of the remaining armies. They were also dropping down somewhat unevenly, and Dwalin couldn’t help but wonder if their ugly mounts had got into someone’s ale supply before they took off. It would explain the odd ‘fall, rise, fall again, rise a bit, fall again’ manoeuvre they seemed to be accomplishing.

Never mind, they’d be down for good soon enough.

Dwalin waited, eyes on the archer as the man continuously judged the distance and his range. Then he saw the archer nod, and Dwalin gave the command.

‘Fire at will.’

The first shot hit one beast in the throat and it veered wildly to one side, fighting to right itself again. It dropped closer to the ground, tilting sharply once again, and something fell from its back. Dwalin had only a moment to realise that the rider, whoever it was, was not wearing the all-black ensemble that the Nazgûl favoured. Then, even as the archer aimed at the second Nazgûl, Glorfindel howled from behind him.

‘Hold your fire!’

It was too late. The archer from Dale had already released the arrow and it found its target easily. The Fell-Beast dropped from the sky, and as it hit the ground two figures were flung away from it, rolling across the ground.

One was easily identified by his bright blond hair.

The other Dwalin would have known anywhere.

Shit.

***

Dís had never run so fast in her life. She had heard only half of what the elves were saying, only enough to understand ‘Fell-Beast’ and ‘escape’ and, most importantly of all, ‘Fellowship.’ She and Thranduil had not remained to listen to any more.

Now her mind was full of only one thought.

Let it be true.

Let it be true.

And it was. Miraculously, implausibly, it was.

She could hear Thorin complaining even from a distance.

‘You shot me down,’ her brother was shouting at Dwalin, hands on his hips. ‘I have just walked hundreds of miles, escaped from orcs, fought Nazgûl, managed to fly that imbecilic thing out of Mordor and I have been SHOT DOWN by MY OWN GUARD CAPTAIN!’

‘You looked like a Nazgûl,’ Dwalin said simply, insolently, though the tone was just a little off, the insolence not quite as sincere as Dwalin usually managed. The fact he couldn’t take his eyes off Thorin’s face in his usual display of unconcern probably did not help.

Thorin made a noise like a kettle reaching the boil.

Thranduil shot past Dis suddenly, hurrying to a spot nearby where several dark-haired elves were surrounding something on the ground. Legolas, it must be, and badly hurt it would seem. Her impression was backed up when Malial, Thranduil’s Chief Healer, sprinted towards them with no regard for anyone’s dignity.

Seconds later Balin appeared, carrying a curly-headed figure who was clinging weakly to his neck.

‘Frodo!’ Dís and Dwalin shouted simultaneously. Dwalin reached for Frodo first, but Balin turned to the side and handed the young hobbit to Dís instead, providing his brother with a hard thump instead of his nephew.

‘He fell when we shot them down,’ Balin told Dwalin gruffly. Dwalin winced and reached out a hand to rest on Frodo’s head.

Dís gripped Frodo tightly, keeping him on his feet and resting him against her for balance. Frodo looked up at Dwalin with a slightly vague expression, leading Dís to conclude that he’d hit his head rather hard. Poor Frodo, what an end to such a journey.

‘Sorry, lad,’ Dwalin said gently, but Frodo smiled.

‘Had worse,’ he mumbled, reaching a hand out and squeezing Dwalin’s hand happily. ‘Home now.’

‘Yes, love, you’re home,’ Dís told him softly, rocking him a little as she had when he was small. ‘Get. Oín,’ she commanded Dwalin out of the corner of her mouth, relaxing a little when he released Frodo’s hand in order to do her bidding.

It was only then that Dís realised that Thorin was watching her with the saddest expression she’d ever seen. She felt movement behind her and twisted her head, just barely able to see Fíli and Bilbo approaching rapidly, having untangled themselves from their fallen mount.

‘Thorin?’ she asked carefully, struck by a foreboding so strong that she instinctively passed Frodo over to Balin once more. It was only then that she realised what was missing.

‘Thorin, where is Kíli?’

But it was not Thorin who answered.

‘I left him, Mum,’ Fíli told her, voice choked and small. ‘There were orcs and we needed time to escape and he _insisted_ , even when I argued and… I left him.’

‘You did not leave him, Fíli,’ Thorin said immediately, clearly something he had said before. ‘He stayed.’

Dís looked at Thorin, who mouthed ‘I am sorry,’ with an expression of such devastation that her heart ached for him. Then she looked at Fíli, who just stared back with the lost air of a little boy, alone and scared.

Thorin, she knew, was expecting her to be angry with him. He expected her to shout.

She couldn’t do it.

Kíli. Her baby. Her bright, wild boy. It hurt. It hurt more than any of the griefs that had come before.

But only minutes ago it had been all of them.

She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.

She wanted to scream at Mahal to give her son back to her.

She also wanted to hug her brother and her eldest son to her and never let them go again.

Dís chose the final option, gathering the two of them close and folding into them as they did the same to her.

‘I still have you,’ she whispered to them. ‘I will count myself lucky, no matter what else has happened, because I still have you.’

Together they cried.

******


	51. On and On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road goes ever on and on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter. Next is an epilogue, and then we are done. 
> 
> If anyone has any scenes they would particularly like to see in a one-shot, or has any questions they would like answered, feel free to let me know. I never promise anything - on very rare occasions I try to write a scene and it just won't come, or what I envision for the backstory and what other people have envisioned are different things - but I will give it a good try.

Chapter Fifty: On and On

‘Lady Arwen!’

Arwen’s head came up at the sound of her name being shouted in so urgent a tone. The man she leant over, whose wound she’d just finished checking, smiled and winked at her.

‘Sounds like you’d best check on that, my Lady,’ he said with a quiet chuckle. ‘Someone’s got themselves in a flap and a half.’

‘Apparently so,’ Arwen replied, even as ‘Lady Arwen!’ rang out again.

‘I am here,’ she called in response as she rose to her feet. ‘Please do stop shouting, there are injured men sleeping.’

Turning to face the voice calling for her, Arwen found exactly who she expected to find.

‘Harlon, Anath,’ she greeted calmly. Harlon had the good grace to look embarrassed. The two of them had assigned themselves as her personal guards from the moment she had set foot in Osgiliath, even though her grandfather had left one or two of his own warriors for the express purpose of guarding his healers.

Arwen suspected that they had been given clear orders regarding the defence of his granddaughter as well, but she tried not to think about that because it only made her irritated.

Despite this, Harlon and Anath appeared to feel that they were in some way obliged to ensure that she suffered no harm whilst within Ithilien. Their explanation had made it clear that they had met Bilbo and the rest of his party at some point and had been most impressed by them, but it had made little else clear.

Arwen had been rather fatigued when they explained it to her, however, so she was willing to admit that not all of the confusion was likely to be the fault of the two Rangers.

What had become clear, not just from Harlon and Anath but from the rest of the Rangers, was that her betrothed’s secret was no longer secret and that her future subjects were well aware of the place she would occupy in Gondor after the War. It was a little disconcerting, for one who had known all of the inhabitants of her previous home for thousands of years, but she was learning quickly.

‘Sorry, my Lady,’ Harlon said far more quietly. ‘We, uh…’

‘We need to borrow you for a moment, my Lady,’ Anath interjected. Arwen did not burst out laughing, but only because she had excellent self-control in most situations.

Only these two would ask to ‘borrow’ the future Queen of Gondor, as if she were a spare sword in the armoury.

She was going to introduce them to Estel as soon as he finished ensuring that Sauron had no army left to defend him. Perhaps Estel would let her add the two of them to her personal guard. If she had to have one she should at least make sure it was going to entertain her.

‘We should not have asked,’ Harlon began to say, alerting Arwen that she had been silent for too long. ‘We will work something else out.’ He took a few steps back and Arwen reached out, catching him by the arm and stilling him.

‘No, do not,’ she commanded. ‘Apologies, gentlemen, I was merely distracted. Come, take me to whatever it is that requires my attention.’

Harlon gave her a sweet smile, reassured, and began to lead the way. Anath held out his arm to her in offering, and Arwen took it willingly.

They moved rapidly through the camp that had sprung up to care for the Pelennor’s wounded. The vast majority were making a full recovery, much to Arwen’s joy, though there were also a number whose lives would be forever changed by the sacrifices they had made on the battlefield. While Grandfather had taken a number of his healers on with him for the battle at the Morannon, he had left a significant proportion here, with Arwen, and they were doing their best to help those men recover and work out how they would rebuild their lives.

Arwen was already assessing how much of her dowry could be redirected into a fund for the wounded soldiers and their families. It was not that she thought Estel would forget any of his people, but the care of the less fortunate should be one of the first priorities of the Queen.

Arwen would confess herself a little surprised when she recognised that she was being guided towards the riverbank. Normally this was the sort of place that Harlon and Anath were most determined she would _not_ visit, being closest to Sauron’s lands and more likely to be inhabited by orcs of some sort. However the two Rangers were now making for it directly and their speed was increasing as they walked.

‘Anath, what is it you need me for, exactly?’ she queried, making it clear with her tone that she expected an answer. Anath squared his shoulders and looked at her directly.

‘There is something on the far bank, my Lady,’ he said softly. ‘It is… well, we don’t think it’s an orc, but we need to be sure.’

Arwen frowned immediately. That did not sound good. Nor did it explain why they had come for her, rather than one of the warriors her grandfather had left behind. Arwen’s eyesight was better than a mortal’s, but not particularly better than others of her kin.

By now, however, they had reached the river and Arwen gazed across. It took only a moment for her eyes to rest upon the lone anomaly. The one thing that would have caused Harlon and Anath to come for her.

‘Get a boat,’ Arwen commanded. ‘ _Quickly_!’

***

Ow.

OW!

Why was everything in the world determined to inflict agony upon him recently?

If it wasn’t cursed rings it was spiders, and if it wasn’t spiders it was orcs.

Kíli really had had enough.

Stretching his body slowly, starting with his neck and working his way down to his feet, he assessed the damage as best he could. Head very sore – kicked, maybe? Shoulder also sore, possibly from when he fell. Stomach… burning like fire from the incident with the ring. Well, at least he knew it was definitely his. Other than that, not too bad.

So, basically, all-but certainly fatally wounded, unless he could find a healer, and stranded in Mordor. Joy.

Condition ascertained, Kíli tried to work out how he had come to be alive (he was working on the premise that he was, in fact, alive until he had clear evidence to the contrary. If death hurt this much he was going to have a lengthy discussion with his creator). He knew that the orcs had, after much shuffling and swearing and screamed orders, finally charged him as a group, as well as they could in the narrow confines of the path.

He knew that he had taken another three down before he had, most inconveniently, run out of arrows.

He knew that he had become a fairly easy target at that point, weak as he already was, and that the orcs had overwhelmed him.

What had happened…?

Oh.

That was just…. He wasn’t telling anyone that. No matter how much they asked. Not even Fíli.

Especially not Fíli.

He was _not_ telling people that he had been saved from death simply because the orcish leader had said, ‘Leave it. It dies anyway.’

That was just embarrassing.

It was also, as of this moment, beside the point. The point being to work out how he could prove the orcish imbecile wrong by living a long and healthy life.

Staying here on this path was probably not the best way to go about that.

He could try to go after his family, of course, but in all likelihood that wasn’t the best way to go about things either. There was nothing stopping the orcs from turning around and spotting him, and deciding to finish what they’d started. Nor was there any guarantee that Kíli would ever be able to catch up with the others given the state he was in.

Besides, he couldn’t fire a bow like this. His shoulder wouldn’t allow it. And he would not risk their lives in defending him.

If he could not go forward, he would have to go back.

Kíli thought of the climb up to reach Shelob’s lair and blanched. No doubt the way would be clear; it was unlikely that the group of orcs that had come upon them had been going this way of their own accord. Sauron, or something working for him, had commanded that they travel back into Mordor from outside. Kíli hoped that meant that the armies Sauron had sent to Gondor had suffered a setback.

Or, even better, that Erebor and its allies had arrived on the Morannon and set Sauron to whimpering for his armies to come and protect him.

That would be nice.

Either way, Kíli’s path would likely be free.

He just wasn’t sure he could make it. He still remembered Uncle basically pulling him up the steepest incline, where they were climbing rather than walking. With one weak shoulder, a sore head and a stomach wound which was quickly going bad, Kíli wasn’t sure he’d be strong enough.

Especially when he realised that he had only a few mouthfuls of food and a half-empty waterskin to his name now. He had sneaked a good portion of his supplies into Frodo’s pack, on the theory that he could always steal a little bit back later if necessary, but that Frodo would need it more than he would.

For a long while Kíli simply lay there, conserving his energy as he tried to decide what to do. His mind ran in circles, like a Council meeting if Uncle let it run on, expending a fair amount of effort but not really getting anywhere.

Then, for what felt like the first time in a very long time, the universe decided to give him some help.

Or so it seemed. Kíli wasn’t entirely sure if he really heard what he thought he had heard, or if it was the imagining of a mind already deprived of sleep, food and water, and in more than a little pain.

Quietly, oh so quietly, Kíli heard, ‘That way.’

He didn’t move at first. He had not quite worked up enough energy and he also assumed that he was simply hearing things.

Then it came again.

‘ _That_ way,’ and this time it was accompanied by a nudge of sorts, the type Bifur gave Bombur and Bofur the first time he tried to wake them, before he got really determined about it.

Something about the voice (though it wasn’t really a voice, it was a feeling, but one that conveyed its meaning rather clearly… Valar, Kíli was confused) seemed familiar. It took another few moments, but just as the third repetition came Kíli finally understood what he was, or wasn’t, hearing.

He had his hand pressed flat to the ground, in fact most of his body was pressed flat to the ground… and it was the ground that was talking to him.

Or rather, it was the stone that was talking to him.

‘Oh,’ Kíli said out loud, his surprise warranting a verbal acknowledgement. Making sure his hand stayed in contact with the ground, Kíli pushed himself upright using his good shoulder for balance.

‘That way,’ the stone told him again and this time, now that it had his attention, there was an image to accompany the words.

The first thing Kíli realised was that he had fallen a lot farther down the path than he had previously assumed. Which would have made climbing back to the top even more difficult than he’d imagined.

The second was that Mordor, or whichever tiny part of it was guiding him, knew itself a lot better than Gandalf did.

He probably should have expected that, but he hadn’t really thought about it up until now and he was used to Gandalf knowing almost everything, with a few key exceptions.

He still did not know about Uncle’s first life, as far as they were aware. Kíli hoped he did not anyway. If Gandalf had known and he and Fíli had not then Kíli was going to be very, very annoyed.

Regardless, the key point was that the stone knew of a path within Mordor which Kíli would otherwise not have found even if he had spent the rest of his lifetime and five more exploring. Mostly because it was not a path, as far as he could tell. If the signs he was picking up were right, it was the result of a long ago rockslide which, due to the fact that nothing grew in this foul place, had never been overgrown. Importantly for Kíli, it moved horizontally across the rock-face, out of sight from anything below, and led over towards Minas Morgul. Minas Morgul led to the river, and that was Kíli’s final destination. He hoped.

Just because he had a little unexpected help did not mean that this journey was going to be at all easy. It certainly wasn’t going to be quick.

***

The first day Kíli managed to drag himself no more than a few miles. He walked for an hour or two, if by walked you meant staggered and stumbled as his eyes kept trying to cross without his permission, then had to stop for well over an hour to rest. Another hour of travel, and then he needed another rest and this time he accidentally fell asleep and had no idea how long had passed by the time he woke again. There was no sun to give him an indication and he did not feel much more rested than he had before.

He had a slight suspicion that he had only woken at all because he had kept in contact with the stone at all times since he had first regained consciousness.

***

That set the pattern for the next few days. Kíli walked slowly, oh so slowly, judging that he had made good progress as long as he did not end the day within one or two miles of where he had started. He never received anything but the faintest impressions from the stone, gentle guidance and little nudges were the most it could manage to convey to him, and Kíli knew that it was because he would never have Bifur and Bofur’s talent. He tried to communicate his gratitude anyway, to push thanks into the ground and hope that it was understood as it was meant. His guide never abandoned him, so Kíli assumed that it was.

***

Finally, after a number of days that Kíli could recall only in the haziest sense, Minas Morgul stood before him. His rations had run out several days before, his water, which he had been sure only to sip at every couple of rests, had not lasted much longer. Kíli was now mostly delirious, driven onward by a compulsion within but barely able to remember why he was continuing to move. There was somewhere he needed to be, someone he needed to reach, but he had no idea where or who.

He was shocked briefly back to alertness when the world around him began to shake. Spinning about to look behind him, Kíli saw Sauron fall without truly understanding what was happening and what it meant for him, for his family and friends, or for Arda. He understood that it was important, though, and somewhere inside he knew that it was a good thing. He also heard a cry of joy, faint but comprehensible, from his guide.

‘Good,’ he murmured to the stone aloud, through cracked lips. ‘That’s good.’

***

Passing through Minas Morgul took on the aspect of a strange dream. Kíli took nothing in, saw the architecture of a bygone age without comprehending its beauty, or the perversion that had been forced upon it. He saw the mark of the Nazgûl everywhere but understood not at all how dangerous this place was to him. He simply kept walking, one foot before the other, and only barely noticed when he made it out the other side.

Here, at last, he saw something that broke through the fog.

Water.

He felt, at the periphery of his awareness, his guide’s faint goodbye and knew himself alone again. He no longer needed guidance, however. All he had to do was reach the shore.

Kíli did not know how long it took. It might have been hours or days. But finally, _finally_ , he was by the river, collapsing to his knees. He was almost, but not quite, too weak to drink. He could not cup his hands. They were torn from one too many falls and he found it hard to open or close them fully.

Rather than try something so difficult and so painful, Kíli simply flopped forward and let his face land in the water. Several gulping mouthfuls and one dangerous gasping incident later, he managed to roll onto his back so that his body was on the shore and the back of his head, plus his hair, dangling just in the water.

He had no idea of the consternation his appearance was causing on the other shore, nor of the confusion when he was recognised. Kíli was far beyond noticing anything by then.

***

‘Send a messenger north immediately,’ Arwen commanded the elven Lieutenant who had been left at Osgiliath when the army marched for the Morannon. ‘The fastest you have. They are to find whoever is in charge of Erebor’s army and tell them that their Prince is in Osgiliath and is deathly ill. If, for some reason, Erebor’s army is not present then they are to speak to Master Bofur.’

‘We were left here to protect….’ The elf, Taron, began. Arwen cut him off.

‘ _Send a messenger north_ ,’ she commanded icily, eyes never leaving the boat transporting Prince Kíli across the river. ‘Or would you expect the dwarves to protect one of their own at the expense of telling Grandfather and Grandmother that they had found Elladan or Elrohir alive and injured?’

Taron was intelligent enough to argue no more. He wheeled sharply about and marched off to find one of his soldiers to take the message.

Arwen barely noticed. The closer Kíli came, the more she could see of his condition. She felt a tear rolling down her face and did not wipe it away.

It was clearly him but he was nothing like she remembered. Nothing at all. All of his light, his motion, was gone.

‘Lady Arwen,’ Fénil, chief amongst the remaining healers, spoke as she approached. Arwen forced herself to turn and look at her friend and occasional co-conspirator. It was Fénil who had helped Arwen to join the healers as they left Lothlórien. ‘All is ready. I have gathered everything I can think we might need and there is a space set aside for Prince Kíli. We will save him.’

‘I hope so,’ Arwen replied. ‘I have no idea how he came to be here but it has been a long, hard journey. We cannot fail him now.’

***

Thorin’s family had barely left his side. No, that was a lie. It felt as if half his kingdom had not left his side. It was a good thing that his fellow monarchs had a sense of humour and had turned ‘Thorin’s entourage’ into a shared joke, for otherwise there would surely have been some noses out of joint.

Not only were Dís, Fíli, Bilbo and Frodo practically attached to him, which Thorin thought was eminently sensible and saved him the trouble of attaching himself to them in turn, but also every member of the Company except Bofur, who had other seams to mine. They followed him when he went to visit Legolas and Thranduil (another pair who could not currently be separated), when he went to discuss the disposal of the orcs with Celeborn, and when he went to formally introduce himself to Aragorn and his Stewards.

They would have accompanied him when he went to catch up with Bard, whom he had not seen for many months, but Bard arrived in Thorin’s camp with Bain in tow, laughing in his usual subdued way at Thorin’s ridiculous predicament.

‘A man who is about to gain Bofur as a son-in-law should not find life so humorous,’ Thorin informed him acidly. Bard stopped laughing and sighed.

‘I cannot dissuade her,’ Bard told him sadly, ‘though the Valar know I have tried. No offence meant, Bombur, Bifur.’ Bifur waved his hand in dismissal. ‘It is lowering to know your eldest daughter can have such poor taste.’ Bain thumped his father on the shoulder and Thorin’s mouth tried to quirk into a smile, but failed partway there.

Thorin suspected that Bard was not as unhappy about the match as he was pretending, mostly because Thorin had seen Sigrid the day before and noticed that she was smiling as widely as anyone could when they had just lost a dear friend and any number of their people.

There was a long pause and Bard had just opened his mouth, doubtless to offer his condolences on their loss, when a stir began to the south of Thorin’s camp. It did not take much effort to discern Celeborn approaching, but the speed with which he was doing so, and the fact that Galadriel was with him and moving equally fast, set every hair on Thorin’s neck standing up.

He was not the only one. Every last member of his family was rising to their feet, hands going to the weapons they still wore even though the battle was done.

‘Celeborn, what is it?’ Thorin called as soon as the Lord of Lothlórien was within earshot. ‘More orcs?’

Celeborn took the last fifty feet or so more swiftly than Thorin could credit, then came to a dead halt. He paused only a second before shaking his head.

‘No, Thorin, no orcs,’ he said, and the joyful note in his voice prickled at Thorin’s mind. ‘A messenger from Osgiliath.’ Then Celeborn turned instead to Dís, and Thorin forgot to breathe.

‘My granddaughter, Arwen, remained at Osgiliath when we marched on, Lady Dís,’ Celeborn told her with the widest smile any of them had ever seen him wear. ‘Two days ago they rescued your youngest son, ill but alive, from the far bank of the Anduin. Arwen recognised him from the Council. She is entirely sure it is Kíli.’

Silence.

Thorin’s heart felt as if it would burst. He stared at Celeborn, watching for any hint that this might be a mistake, that someone could turn around tomorrow, or the day after, and tell him that Arwen was wrong, that Kíli remained dead somewhere in Mordor.

Celeborn showed no doubt. Nor did Galadriel, whose smile beamed as she surveyed them.

Dís burst into heaving, helpless sobs.

‘Dís!’ Thorin exclaimed, staring at his sister in horror. Later he would be disgusted with himself for his slow reaction. His baby sister was crying her heart out and what did Thorin do? Stood there and gaped. He could only blame it on the shock.

For once, and this only contributed to the unreality of the moment, it was Dwalin who knew what to do.

‘Oh lass,’ he said gruffly, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Dís. ‘Come here. It’s alright now.’ He said nothing more, just tucked Dís under his chin and rocked her gently. Bombur, who had been standing near to Fíli, put his hand in the small of Fíli’s back and gave him a gentle shove forward. Broken out of his own disbelief, Fíli quickly understood what Bombur intended and moved forward to plaster himself to his mother’s back, wrapping around her from behind.

‘Promise its true,’ Fíli said desperately as he did so, echoing Thorin’s own thoughts. ‘Promise I won’t wake up.’ It was unclear who he was talking to, but an elf who had accompanied Celeborn and Galadriel to join Thorin’s party responded.

‘I swear it, Prince Fíli,’ the elf said firmly. ‘He was badly injured and needed a lot of healing, but I promise it was him. Lady Arwen was not the only one who remembered him. A little taller than you, dark hair to his shoulders, looking a lot like King Thorin and bearing a darkwood recurve bow. It was your brother.’

‘We’re leaving now,’ Dís commanded, voice thick and yet still fierce, at the same time that Thorin ordered, ‘Ready the horses so we can ride out.’

Pulling herself out of her hiding spot, Dís met Thorin’s eyes and smiled for the first time in days.

‘Let us go and retrieve our lad.’

***

In the end Mum, and Fíli along with her, he could admit, was so utterly frantic and desperate to reach Kíli that Thranduil had a quiet word with Celeborn. Three of the quickest elven horses now without riders were found, requisitioned and provided to Erebor’s royal family, and Uncle, Mum and Fíli set off ahead of their companions. All of the Fellowship, the Company and a number of their friends wished to travel south, to the point that Glorfindel was heard to joke that they might as well march the whole army out at the same time.

Fíli had to keep reminding himself to breathe. All through the journey, which took only two days on their swift mounts and yet seemed to last an eternity, he came back to himself at intervals to the realisation that he was holding his breath and had to force himself to let it go.

He believed. He did. Almost.

There was still some part of him certain that, if he could just prevent himself from believing fully, it would hurt less if they discovered it was not Kíli.

Or, worse, if it was Kíli but his injuries had overcome him. The messenger had made sure to come to Mum and Fíli and warn them that Kíli had been in extremely poor health when he was found.

Fíli was unsurprised. His brother’s survival was a miracle in itself. For him to have survived and been cured of the wounds he had taken would have implied direct intervention by the Valar. Even for Erebor’s royal family that was not exactly a common phenomenon.

Such contemplations kept him occupied all the way to Osgiliath, but once he was there his thoughts scattered like paper in the wind. Lady Arwen must have had someone keeping watch for them, for only seconds after they arrived she flew out of a crumbled doorway with a Ranger in pursuit, making straight for them. Part of Fíli noted that he recognised the Ranger, but it made little impact on his disjointed mind.

Everything snapped back into place at Arwen’s words, which she chose perfectly.

‘He lives and is healing well,’ she told them, wasting no time on greetings. ‘He awoke for the first time this morning and I informed him you were coming. He asked for you when he woke again two hours ago. He will take time to recover but I promise you, he _will_ recover.’

Mum reached out to Fíli and grasped his hand so firmly he was fairly sure he was going to lose circulation in a few minutes. Uncle gripped his shoulder a little less tightly, then leant his temple against the side of Fíli’s head.

‘Where is he?’ Fíli asked Arwen, trying not to seem as if he was ready to shove past her and bash down a wall if it would get him to Kíli quicker. Arwen had done well by them, she deserved manners at the very least.

She proved it by not hesitating for a second.

‘This way,’ she invited them, and they followed her through the doorway she had exited, around a couple of broken columns and into what must, once, have been a small storage room. Kíli lay on a pile of blankets, attended by another Ranger. Anath, Fíli forced himself to put a name to a face, and Arwen’s companion was Harlon. Anath smiled at Fíli and immediately moved out of the way, guiding his friend back out of the room.

Fíli was grateful. They would speak later, but now was for Kíli.

Kíli, who was waking at the noise in the room, eyes opening even as Fíli and Mum knelt at his side, Uncle bending down at his feet.

‘You’re here,’ Kíli whispered softly, lighting up the room with his happiness, and a tear slipped down Fíli’s cheek.

‘I thought you were dead,’ he whispered back, reaching out a hand to rest it over Kíli’s heart. ‘I really thought you were dead.’

‘ _I_ thought I was dead,’ Kíli responded. ‘Was weird. Kept thinking the ground was talking to me. Except it hurt too much.’

Mum looked at Lady Arwen with concern and Arwen made a wry face.

‘The wound on his stomach was badly infected, though not quite as badly as it could have been,’ Arwen commented. ‘I have been giving him something for the pain but it is making him a little confused.’

‘He is always a little confused,’ Uncle responded, though the words were belied by the fond tone and the look of wonder as Uncle gazed down at his nephew, one hand rubbing at Kíli’s ankle gently.

‘Don’t be mean to me,’ Kíli objected with a pout. ‘I kept you safe.’

‘That you did, akhûnith,’ Thorin reassured him. ‘Now if we could just teach you to come out of saving us unharmed I would feel much better.’

‘Or you could all give up life-threatening quests,’ Mum added, fingers running through Kíli’s hair. ‘That would be my vote.’

‘Do we get to vote?’ Kíli asked curiously.

‘Yes, but my vote counts treble,’ Mum confirmed. Fíli pulled a face at her. Mum pulled one back. Fíli decided he’d best back her up if he wanted to live his life in any kind of comfort.

‘We’ve done all the biggest quests now anyway,’ he told Kíli teasingly, noting his brother’s eyes sliding shut. ‘Why go back to smaller ones again?’

‘True,’ Kíli agreed. ‘I’m going to sleep now. Being dead was traumatic. Need to sleep it off.’

Tears rolled down Uncle’s face as he became the last of them to let go. Kíli must have heard something, for he made a querying sound, but Mum hushed him gently.

‘It is nothing, sweet lad,’ she soothed. ‘Go to sleep now. We will be here when you wake.’

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are about to tell me that you KNEW Kili was going to live - I wouldn't. Kili's fate was far more in the balance than any of you probably realised, for a number of reasons. In the end he was saved by the grace of ISeeFire, who made it clear that was what she wanted. She is the best beta I could possibly have, so I almost always try to do as she asks of me. 
> 
> By all means be happy things turned out this way, but bear in mind that stories aren't always as set in stone as you think! :P :D


	52. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way their tale should end. Happily... and with yet more negotiations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a few days it will be two years since I started this saga of a story. For the last few months I have been determined that, in true hobbit fashion, I would post the final chapter for you today, on my birthday. I am very glad to have made it this far and I hope you have all enjoyed the ride! If you have please do let me know.

Epilogue: Negotiations

‘It should have been me.’

‘Perhaps. Or me.’

‘You didn’t…’

‘Didn’t what, love? Didn’t try to keep it? Didn’t want it more than my oldest friend?’

‘Didn’t kill someone to keep it. Didn’t kill your oldest friend.’

Déagol sighed. They kept coming back to this part. How could they not? Especially now, watching two brave hobbits do what he and Sméagol had never been able to do. Would never have been able to.

‘No, I didn’t kill anyone,’ he agreed. Despite Sméagol’s fears, Déagol was not blind to the crime that Sméagol had committed. He had been the victim after all. He still remembered the feeling of all the breath leaving him as the world went black. ‘I didn’t, because I lost the fight.’

That was the part Sméagol would not see. That neither of them had been willing to give it up. That, had things gone differently, it might have been Déagol hiding under those mountains for hundreds of years.

‘Your friends forgave you, Sméagol,’ he pointed out softly. The young hobbits had been a wonder, even to Déagol. He had long passed the point where he ever expected to see his cousin in the creature the ring had left behind, but Merry and Pippin had found him.

‘They were very young,’ Sméagol countered. ‘And rather silly.’ The last he said with a fond smile.

‘But not as silly as we were,’ Déagol said with a raised eyebrow. Sméagol sighed and nodded his agreement. ‘So trust them, more than you trust yourself.’

‘Love, I think I trust everyone more than I trust myself.’ Déagol laughed at the response. ‘Except Sauron,’ Sméagol clarified, ‘and Saruman, and those _things_ …’

‘Never trust the things,’ Déagol agreed. ‘Very dangerous, those.’ Sméagol elbowed him in the stomach, then looked startled at his own daring.

‘There,’ Déagol said happily. ‘That’s all I want. My cousin back. That’s all any of us want.’ He gestured down towards the clan house, where generations of their family still gathered. Sméagol had been the last of them to come. ‘They missed you when you changed.’

‘ _Déagol_ ,’ Sméagol growled in irritation. They always ended in the same place. Always another attempt to bring him back into the fold. Sméagol wasn’t sure he knew how to be in a fold anymore. It had been too long.

‘You would have forgiven _me_ ,’ was Déagol’s only response.

They did not move. Not for hours.

That was alright. Déagol could wait.

***

Thorin rested a hand against the rock wall of Erebor’s entrance hall, looking out at the dwarves gathered before him, and sighed with happiness.

Home. At last.

It had been a long journey, and a slow one. None of them had wanted to rush Kíli, even when it was clear that his recovery would, indeed, be complete. They had travelled at an easy pace, stopping regularly to rest.

Kíli had started yelling at them to hurry it up about two weeks in, when he truly was back to himself, but they had mostly ignored him. He’d stopped the yelling once Bilbo had explained slowly and carefully just how it had felt to leave him behind, and how close his mother and Dwalin were to snapping after the stresses of nearly losing them all.

Fíli had stepped in to push the point firmly home and that had been the end of that.

Now, amongst the cheering and rejoicing of his people as they welcomed home their loved ones, Thorin noticed that Kíli, too, was leaning against the wall.

‘Listening?’ Thorin asked him quietly.

‘Hmm,’ Kíli agreed. ‘It’s getting easier. And I like it when she’s happy. She’s very happy right now.’

‘Of course she is,’ Thorin told him. ‘Her Princes are back. Bofur says she dotes on the pair of you.’

‘He says the same about you,’ Kíli pointed out. Thorin pretended not to hear. Mountains did not dote upon their grown kings. And yes, he was aware of the illogic of that thought in context. He was simply pretending not to notice it.

‘Why is Uncle grinding his teeth?’ Fíli asked cheerily as he joined them. ‘He can’t already have found out?’

‘Already found out what?’ Thorin queried immediately, even as Kíli groaned.

‘I swear you do these things on purpose,’ the younger Prince exclaimed in his most exasperated tone, frowning at his brother.

‘Not at all, it’s simply a talent,’ Fíli lied shamelessly.

‘A talent for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time?’ Kíli questioned.

‘Something that proves you a Durin male in truth,’ Dís informed them as she approached. ‘What are they up to, Thorin?’

‘I know not,’ Thorin replied. ‘As yet they have not deigned to tell me.’

Dís fixed the two of them with a glare. Kíli caved almost instantly.

‘Only that we made a promise to Legolas,’ he said carefully. ‘For when we were all recovered.’

‘ _Kíli_ ,’ Dís barked.

‘There are _spiders_ , Mum!’ Kíli responded. ‘You know how Legolas feels about spiders. We’re his friends, we can’t just abandon him.’

‘He has plenty of warriors to help him clear the Woodland Realm,’ Dís argued. Kíli shook his head. Thorin saw the ‘I’m disappointed in you’ face he was pulling and wondered whether or not it would work.

It did not look likely to. Dís was winding herself up for a full-on battle, as she had every time the subject of Kíli, or any of them, fighting had come up recently. It was not that Thorin could not understand her fear, but they were all trained warriors and led patrols on a regular basis when they were at home. If Dís decided that none of them could ever leave the Mountain again things were going to get extremely awkward.

Thus, while Dís was informing Kíli that he would _not_ be going to help the Woodland Realm with their spider problem, Thorin looked for and caught Óin’s eye. He gestured his cousin over, jerking his head in the direction of Dís and Kíli, and Óin rolled his eyes before walking over.

‘Dís,’ he said firmly as he approached, tapping her head to get her attention. Stopping mid-sentence – a sentence which had included the words ‘might not even be fully recovered’, Thorin was unsurprised to note – Dís turned to look at their healer.

‘Dís, I want you to _listen_ to me now,’ Óin ordered, waiting until he was sure she was staying put and not likely to start hitting or kicking anything. ‘Kíli is fine. He has healed completely. Other than his unfortunate mental state,’ Kíli squealed in indignation, then clapped his hand over his mouth and tried fervently to pretend the noise had not, in fact, come from him, ‘there is not a thing wrong with him. He is as healthy as he was when he left Erebor.’

‘He might not be,’ Dís protested, sounding unconvinced by her own argument. They all knew that Óin would never have let Kíli anywhere near a weapon if he was not certain that Kíli was fit to wield it. Thorin, having called Óin for support, knew that the best thing he could do was stay well out of the way. Really Óin’s sceptical look said it all.

‘Mum, I promise I’ll be careful,’ Kíli said gently. ‘Promise. Truly. I’ll even listen to Fíli if he tells me not to do something.’

A look of wild joy came across Fíli’s face.

‘While we’re in the Woodland Realm, and only then, as long as it’s to do with being safe while we’re fighting,’ Kíli clarified.

Fíli pouted.

‘Fine,’ Dís announced after a moment in which she clearly struggled with herself. ‘Fine! Go and get yourself killed. Enjoy!’ Then she stormed off in Nula’s direction.

‘So, was that Mum for “I know I’m wrong but I just don’t want to admit it” or “you’ve annoyed me so much I don’t care if you die anymore”?’ Kíli asked wryly. Thorin snorted.

‘That was most definitely the former,’ he assured his nephew. ‘If I were you I would keep emphasising the “I’ll be careful” part as often as possible, though. Clearly your mother still needs the reassurance.’

‘Dís will be fine,’ Óin told them all. ‘She just needs plenty of evidence that this one is actually well and that none of you are going to suddenly disappear. We’ll keep an eye on her. Give her time. Now, should you not all be doing something useful?’

The timing was impeccable. Within seconds of Óin finishing the sentence, Thorin heard his name shouted and turned to see Balin stood next to Kune, who had been acting as temporary Steward. His true Steward gestured Thorin over sharply and Thorin shook his head ruefully as the work began again.

***

‘Nobody ever lets me burn anything,’ Legolas said sadly. Thranduil, fully aware of his dignity as King of the Woodland Realm, and of the large number of soldiers stood nearby, did not bang his head against the nearest tree.

He thought about it, but restrained himself.

‘My kingdom… _our_ kingdom is made of wood, ionneg,’ he reminded Legolas slowly. ‘I can think of few worse ideas than setting anything on fire whilst we are within it.’

‘Spiders, Father,’ was Legolas’ rejoinder. ‘Tell me you would not like to watch some spiders burning.’

Fíli, who along with Thorin, Tauriel and Kíli had been very quiet up until this point, began to laugh.

‘I should probably apologise,’ he told Thranduil. Thranduil groaned. Quietly.

‘Are you where he got this idea from?’ he demanded of Fíli. Fíli shrugged.

‘In my defence it was meant to be a throwaway comment. I didn’t realise he was going to take me seriously.’

‘You should have let me set Shelob on fire,’ Legolas said haughtily.

‘I let you _kill_ Shelob,’ Fíli said. Thranduil was not sure quite how he came to that conclusion; he had yet to see Fíli successfully stop Legolas from killing anything. ‘Should that not have been enough, bâhuh?’

‘This would be better,’ Legolas insisted. Thranduil could not help groaning again. His only child was like an elk with the bit between its teeth sometimes.

‘If,’ Thranduil began slowly. Legolas recognised the tone and perked up, ‘ _IF_ you are able to corner some of the spiders in Dol Guldur and you are certain that there is no danger to anything living… good and living… then you may set the spiders on fire. That is the best you are going to get, Legolas.’

Legolas whooped with joy, grinning at Kíli with a manic light in his eyes. Kíli grinned back in the same manner, and Thranduil received some compensation for his pain in the way that Fíli’s forehead smacked into his hand.

Tauriel simply gave her Lord a look of utter betrayal.

‘I am sorry, my dear,’ he assured her. ‘Truly.’

Thorin was not laughing, but Thranduil knew it was only because where Legolas went his nephews were sure to follow.

‘Why do they do this to us?’ Thranduil asked him plaintively, magnanimously ignoring the choked-down laughter. ‘Why?’

‘Children are an exercise in fortitude,’ Thorin answered him. ‘Remember that it could be worse. You could have had Elladan and Elrohir instead.’

That was a good point, Thranduil realised as they prepared to move out. A very good point. One was quite bad enough. Two might just have killed him.

The spiders, oddly enough, never knew what hit them.

***

Two months after their return to Erebor, upholding a tradition begun twenty years before, Thorin hosted a memorial for their fallen. He was joined, as they were on the anniversary of the Battle of the East each year, by the elves of the Woodland Realm, the men of Dale and the men of Lake-town. Following the memorial would come the celebration of their victory, but for now all was still.

All except Kíli.

Thorin and Balin had thought long and hard about who to ask to make this speech. There would be only one, this first year. The funerals had been hard for everyone, and Thorin was reluctant to draw too much of their focus onto what had been lost when so much had also been won.

In the end, Kíli had seemed the best choice. His was the role of lore-keeper, after all, and he had so nearly made the same sacrifice as those they had lost.

Balin had pointed out to Thorin that he and the remainder of the Fellowship had come very close to doing so as well, but Thorin had argued that it was not the same and had won.

Now he simply waited to hear what his youngest nephew would say to their people.

Kíli was silent a moment longer, then began.

‘We all had something we wanted to say to you today,’ he told the crowds, ‘but we could not all be the ones to say it. So my family have given the honour to me and I can only hope to do it justice.’

He paused and took a breath before carrying on.

‘I could tell you that the ones you lost in this war were brave, skilled warriors, determined to the last – but I don’t believe I need to. You know that, because they were yours and you knew them well. Instead I wanted to say this. You grieve for them now, and so do we. I could not know all who marched out in our cause, but I promise you that somewhere here there is someone else who knew your loved one and who holds their memory as you do. We will protect those memories, my family and I, as we have been taught by those we loved and lost. They will not fade. Not just memories of courage, but memories of friends and shield-brothers, of laughter and pain shared together. We do not forget.’

Kíli stopped again, for a brief moment, and Fíli walked forward without seeming to realise he was doing it, reaching out to clasp his brother’s hand. Kíli smiled at him, then started once more.

‘Most importantly, though, we wanted to say this. We honour the sacrifice of those you loved, of all who died in this war.

We also honour your sacrifice. For you gave your loved ones to us, to guard our backs, to heal our wounds, to raise our spirits when all seemed lost. You gave them to us and we are sorry we could not bring them back to you, but we are so grateful. Thank you, all of you. They were the greatest gift you could ever give and our Line does not forget.’

Thorin saw tears on the faces before him. He also saw smiles, true ones, and was thankful.

When it truly mattered, Kíli had known what to say. Had known the perfect thing to say.

Now the celebration could commence.

***

When Bilbo found himself in Erebor’s throne room within his dreams, his first thought was that he clearly needed a holiday. Assisting Thorin with his work was one thing. Dreaming about it was quite another.

Then Frodo and Thorin appeared. Not that it was terribly unusual for his nephew and dearest friend to be included in his dreams, but generally they did not suddenly turn up out of the blue, looking thoroughly confused.

Fíli, Kíli, Legolas, Sigrid, Alnir, Merry, Pippin, Elladan, Bofur and Aragorn followed shortly afterwards and then Bilbo was certain something strange was happening.

‘There you all are,’ Mahal said with great satisfaction, ignoring the look of confused fear on a number of the faces before him.

‘Must you?’ Thorin scolded his creator firmly, eyeing those nervous expressions. ‘They are not all used to your sense of melodrama.’

A number of shoulders relaxed at Thorin’s clear familiarity with this strange figure, but the tension was still present.

‘Those of you who are not familiar,’ Bilbo spoke up, ‘meet Mahal, creator of the dwarves. In this case the apple fell very close to the tree. He is quite as provoking as most of the dwarves of my acquaintance, but otherwise generally harmless.’

‘Generally harmless!’ Mahal interrupted indignantly. Bilbo shushed him.

‘Were you planning to hurt them?’ he demanded of Mahal impatiently.

‘Of course not,’ came the response.

‘Then you have no reason to fuss,’ Bilbo concluded. ‘Focus instead on telling us why we are here.’

‘I was in a Council meeting,’ Aragorn told them with a resigned tone. ‘I realise most of you were probably asleep, but I was in a late meeting and, if I am correct about what is happening here, my Council probably think I am going mad.’

‘It’s good for them,’ Thorin reassured him swiftly. ‘Keeps them on their toes. Ecthelion and Denethor will cover for you. They know their jobs.’

Aragorn continued to look resigned, but nodded.

‘The gratitude is overwhelming,’ Mahal expounded. ‘I have protected you, guided you,’ Fíli and Kíli snorted simultaneously and Mahal glared at them, ‘ _fought on your behalf_ , and this is the thanks I get.’

‘Fought with who?’ Legolas asked curiously. Mahal waved a hand.

‘Many of my brothers and sisters. This would all have been a great deal easier if Thorin were not quite so free with his affections…’

‘Did he just imply I am promiscuous?’ Thorin asked Bilbo disbelievingly. Bilbo struggled to contain his hysterics.

‘Mind _out_ of the gutter, Thorin,’ Mahal corrected. ‘However, as you have, between you, managed to create quite the most complicated twist of inter-race relationships I have ever come across…’

‘Not my fault you made my One human,’ Bofur interrupted. Mahal’s glare of wrath had no effect whatsoever. Bilbo was unsurprised.

‘As I was saying!’ Mahal continued, sun-bright eyes surveying them all acutely to ensure there would be no further interruptions. The majority of those present returned the gaze innocently. Mahal seemed to realise that that was the best he was going to get. ‘As you are all now hopelessly intertwined with one another, I have had a very busy few months. My siblings are not, for the most part, particularly keen to give up those they have claimed as their own. Bilbo and Frodo I had already managed to adopt, thankfully. The rest of you took rather more time.’

More than one of those present looked extremely startled. Mahal, realising he had lost them, huffed and began again.

‘We are aware that we owe you a great debt, children. Possibly one that cannot be repaid. I have been trying regardless. I cannot rearrange the entirety of the world for you,’ he clarified. ‘Nor can I alter the laws of time. No more than I already have. Father was willing to have each of you welcomed to Valinor when your end finally came, but what then becomes of Dís? Or Bard? Of Balin and Dwalin? Of Esmeralda and Eglantine?’

‘Left behind,’ Elladan murmured and Mahal nodded sadly.

‘I convinced Father that, while you would be grateful for the honour, it would have its own punishments as well. Instead we have this. You are all mine now. As such, I have some say over your ending place. You will each remain with your people; or spouse,’ he clarified, nodding at Aragorn and Sigrid in turn, ‘as you would have. However there will be a place, one of my creating, where all may come. You and those you love. Where you may be together. It is the best I can do.’

None of them spoke at first. Then, surprisingly, Alnir was the first.

‘Thank you,’ he told Mahal sincerely. ‘I am sure there are some here who will say I am yet too young to have considered such things,’ he gave Legolas a dry look. Legolas tilted his head in response, ‘but I had wondered, and even worried a little. This is more than I had hoped for.’

‘We will be a long time coming,’ Elladan said quietly. Legolas nodded his agreement. Kíli, sat on the floor next to him, rested his head against his friend’s knee.

‘There will be a… door, if you will,’ Mahal said gently. ‘Into Valinor. You do not wish to know what I had to promise my father to be given that.’

‘She will be able to see her father? And her mother?’ Aragorn asked tightly. Mahal nodded. Aragorn’s eyes closed and he, too, whispered a thank you.

‘Off with you now,’ Mahal said with false gruffness. ‘I have had enough cheek for one evening.’ It was an abrupt end, as he had meant it to be. Bilbo, still turning the realisation that he would get to have _all_ of his family with him, one day, barely had time to grasp what was happening before he was unceremoniously dumped out of the vision.

Well, if that was not just like a dwarf. Rude creatures.

***

‘Forgotten something?’ Bofur asked Mahal wryly when he looked around and realised that, of all those assembled a moment ago, only he and Sigrid remained.

‘No,’ Mahal said with great certainty. ‘I have not.’ He said nothing more.

To Sigrid’s surprise, her love actually managed to stay quiet for more than a few seconds. She wondered idly if Mahal could be convinced to visit every once in a while. There were worse ways to get a little peace.

Bofur looked at her, grinning, and she knew he had divined exactly what she was thinking. She smirked, then winked at him. He laughed.

‘Why could you not have worked that out ten years ago?’ Mahal asked Bofur sternly. Bofur only shrugged.

‘All things have their time,’ he replied.

‘Perhaps,’ Mahal agreed, ‘and I suppose it would not have changed the basic nature of things. Or of either of you.’ Sigrid did not understand, and it did not seem that Bofur did either. They looked at one another in confusion.

‘I had one last gift for you,’ Mahal finally spoke again. ‘For Sigrid, mostly,’ he added with a look of mock irritation at Bofur. ‘I had meant to tell you about it now, but perhaps I will wait after all. Off you go.’

Now that, Sigrid thought as she woke alone, was just strange.

She continued to think so for some time. Until the day when, beyond all expectations, she safely delivered their first child.

***

‘My lords,’ Arwen said sunnily as she glided through the door. ‘I am so sorry to interrupt, but I fear I need the King for a moment.’

Aragorn watched this group of nobles, some of the crustiest of the old guard, who had been fighting him on everything and anything for the year he had been King, turn into blushing young boys at the sight of his wife’s smile.

Valar but he loved his wife.

‘Remind me why I do not make you negotiate with those stick-in-the-muds,’ he murmured to her as they passed out of the door, Arwen’s hand light upon his arm.

‘I have no desire to do so, Estel,’ she replied equally quietly, ‘and so there is not the slightest chance of your convincing me.’

Anath laughed, louder than he meant to, grinning when he caught Aragorn’s gaze. Aragorn let his wife’s chief guard see his slight roll of the eyes, then turned his attention back to Arwen.

‘Why did you rescue me from that meeting?’ he asked curiously. ‘I shall assume it was not from the goodness of your heart, given that you will not save me permanently.’

‘Do not be a coward, my love,’ she said briskly, patting the arm she held. ‘I came because we have visitors.’

‘Visitors I will wish to see?’ Aragorn asked hopefully.

‘Visitors you will very much wish to see,’ she confirmed, then opened the door at the end of the corridor they had traversed.

In the room, waiting with wide grins, were his foster-brothers, and with them Merry and Pippin, grinning wider still.

‘You took your time,’ Aragorn commented, even as he bent to hug Merry and Pippin to him. ‘Were you not supposed to arrive last month?’

‘One cannot hurry perfection, Estel,’ Elrohir said airily.

‘Particularly not elven perfection,’ Elladan added.

‘Hobbit perfection takes less time, but more negotiating,’ Pippin concluded.

‘Negotiating?’ Aragorn asked hopefully.

‘No, Estel, you cannot make the hobbits deal with those nobles either,’ Arwen scolded. That had not actually been what Aragorn had meant, but he was disappointed all the same.

He had been right, all those months ago. War was definitely the easiest part of ruling.

‘With our parents,’ Merry told him. ‘It took a very long time, and a little interference from Lord Elrond, but we’ve finally come to a deal. A full year with them, then a full year with you, then back again. Until such time as Pip is actually an adult. After that they’ve agreed to look at it again.’

He should feel guilty, Aragorn thought, for stealing the two hobbits from their family.

Yet, somehow, he did not. Not right now, at least.

***

‘Aulë?’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘It is a better world you have created. Thank you.’

‘You are welcome, Father.’

Fin

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't finish without saying thank you again to my beta, ISeeFire. I might never have got to the end without her and it certainly would have been a lot poorer in quality without her around to catch the inevitable cock-ups I make. Thank you, my dear, it is all much appreciated! As always, should you wish to be paid in fic you need only let me know :D :D
> 
> Thank you as well to all those who have provided feedback along the way. Knowing there are people reading, and hopefully enjoying, makes it far easier to sit down and start writing the next chapter when ten different things are vying for attention in real life.
> 
> ETA: If you have managed to make it to the end and have enjoyed the story, please let me know. As mentioned at the beginning, it took me two years to write and feedback is what makes all that time worthwhile.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crustacean Infestation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541672) by [LittleLucy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLucy/pseuds/LittleLucy)




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